


The Golden Ocean

by Somedrunkpirate



Series: Tidal Waves [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (past and referenced), A ton of OC's - Freeform, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst, Backstory, Borderline Alcoholism, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Forgiveness, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scenes, Moments of good feels too, Napoleon Solo/Original Male Characters, Napoleon is a bit not good, Napoleon/Victoria, Original Female Character/Original Female Character - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Prequel, Regret, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, but not really in a ship way, friendships, learning to be better, lying, more in a background or plot to this story way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 85,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: This is a story set after Napoleon leaves Russia behind, destroying what might have been the most meaningful relationship he's ever had. This is a story about regret, consequences, and finding oneself. This is Napoleon learning to be a better person, and realising he deserves a better life, no matter the mistakes he made.Sadly, that lesson takes a long time to learn.-----“Garcia,” Napoleon says, his lips numb and uncooperative. “Don’t be like me.”Garcia huffs, barely audible over the music. “Not planning on it.”Napoleon shakes his head and has to hold on to the bar-top from the dizziness the movement causes. “No, I mean—“ he tugs at her wrist and points it towards James. “I— I fucked up— my one chance to be happy. Don’t be like me. Don’t wait.”





	1. Sinnerman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScribeofArda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/gifts).

> I'm honestly a little emotional posting this. It's been so long. I hope I see some familiar faces in the comments. Do me a favour and please let any old readers know that this series is updating again! I can't see how many people have subscribed to the series, so I don't know if the 70 people still subscribed to DD will get the notification. 
> 
> This work wouldn't have been possible without ScribeofArda's continuous friendship and support. You've been amazing <3
> 
> Before we begin I have to tell you that this story will get dark at parts, and because it's a prequel, I'm afraid I can't deliver a completely resolved story. I am planning to write a bit of an epilogue set some time after the events of Drowning Deep, but that might not address everything in this story. I hope that the point where Illya and Napoleon ended up in Drowning Deep, will give you the confidence that this new sight into Napoleon's mental state, doesn't change that. I believe that they're on a point that can handle the issues Napoleon has been having, but hadn't been addressed in DD because it was Illya centric. 
> 
> I'll specify in which chapters certain things will arise that might be triggers to some. In general the violence is pretty akin to the movie (though maybe more extensive), but as it is prose instead of a scene, the details might feel harsher. There are also certain flashbacks where child abuse will be prevalent. I will warn before those as well. 
> 
> There are a few more points I'll raise at the end notes, but for now please enjoy the start of this story!

The fit of his suit feels strange on his skin. 

Napoleon shifts in his plastic train seat. Thick forests buzz past as he struggles and fails to find a comfortable way to sit. He tugs on his collar, trying to breathe, but his shirt constricts around his throat. Heat rises up over his spine, flushing his face and Napoleon sweats despite the chill of the Polish night train. He undoes the first two buttons, loosens his tie with trembling fingers, and licks his too-dry lips. 

It isn’t enough. Napoleon still feels choked. 

He takes his jacket off and folds it carefully, placing it on the chair across from him. The jacket is a familiar sight; he’d prepared it for a journey just like this— its fabric a deep blue, cut sharply while holding heat well. It shouldn’t bother him; it should be comfortable, but Napoleon cannot stand to wear it right now. He presses his forehead against the rattling window and resigns himself to a horrid night. 

Rest is elusive with thoughts forming a whirlpool threatening to drown. His heart still races , matching the cadence of the railroad tracks underneath the train. The old iron screeches and sighs around him like a giant beast breathing. Napoleon smiles bitterly at the aptness of the image— he feels like he’s swallowed whole by a creature he can’t see, a monster hunted by another. 

It would explain the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream, like he’s still in the middle of an escape, cutting fast corners while pushing through the pain of endless exertion. But he isn’t running anymore. He’d made the check points with ample time and there are no signs of anyone on his tail. He’d gotten out cleanly, thanks to his intense preparation before he’d even entered the base. His cache had held all he had needed, the motorcycle he’d stolen was now dumped in a lake. Nothing had gone awry — not after he left the premises, not truly — but Napoleon can’t shake the feeling that everything has gone terribly, horribly wrong. 

He remembers a letter hidden between wooden plates, feels the confession like a brand on his heels, following him every step. He shakes his head jerkily— even if they find it today, it’s not enough to hunt him down. It’s not enough to get him caught. He just has to run harder. He just has to shed his name and forget. 

He worries at the leather skin of his bag. It’s filled with supplies; clothes and documents needed to cross the various borders until he’s ready to enter the warehouse. Nothing of his time in Russia has stayed with him, except for the flash drive hidden in a secret compartment inside his shoe. 

—_except for a head full of memories and a heart full of cracks. _

Napoleon forces himself to breathe slowly. His breath becomes fog, dancing in the air until it dews against the glass. Napoleon follows a drop as it glides down the window and hits the wooden edge. He doesn’t notice the tears on his own cheeks until he feels them drop onto his hand one by one. He closes his eyes, fiercely glad he is alone in this compartment. 

There are no witnesses as Napoleon allows himself to fall apart, just for a little while. He doesn’t think about what he’s done, about the past nor the future. He just digs a hand into the mess inside of his chest and lets the whirlpool take him. 

Before long, Napoleon is overwhelmed with his pain. A siren song of suffering. There is shame, there is guilt, but one other forms the loudest voice. _Grief_. Grief for what could have been— or for what never should have been. It’s almost a relief to acknowledge the ache that’s been wrecking him for days. Napoleon grieves Vincenzo until he falls into a restless sleep, knowing that when morning comes, he has to start to forget. 

By the time Napoleon arrives in Germany, the suit feels like his again. 

———

Napoleon prides himself for his control. 

For any job, he needs the perfect manipulation over his own body; expression, stance and tone alike. It delves deeper than a mere act. It has to. The mind is a powerful, nigh uncontrollable, thing. Which means that if one can’t compartmentalise their thoughts, the truth of the matter will come spilling out at the edges eventually. 

One way to avoid this issue, is to focus on every moment as it comes, individually, keeping yourself in the _now_ to maintain a false sense of stability. This works for short term cons, for small lies for a small time, but for undercover work it is impossible to not take the big picture into account. When you have to keep track of all your lies, you have more places you can crack. 

So there is another — harder — tactic for those who have more lies to share. They build a character and step into their skin, with all of the character’s wants, needs, dreams and fears. They become exactly what they need to be. It’s more than acting; it’s building a person who exists.

Napoleon has a collection of personalities tucked away in his memory, people he could become again— because that is the trick of it. Pretending is not enough. You must _be_ someone, and for that you need an anchor: a little piece of you to build the falsehoods around. 

Simon had been born in the same county. Nicolai had a love for languages, Italian in particular. Daniel wore suits whenever he could and Philip adored to indulge in high end meals his accountant pockets shouldn’t be able to subsidise. The anchor is usually a tiny thing, a small truth that makes the rest go down smoothly.

Vincenzo had had his humour, his joy. Napoleon should have known such an abstract concept would never function as a true anchor. It had been too big, too important to keep small.

Napoleon blames this for the way the past months don’t allow themselves to be boxed off and pushed into a corner. It is not that he’d thought it would be easy— _closing the door behind him; a soft snore hitching before quieting again; an empty hall inviting dread to pool in his stomach. He can’t turn back now, but then again, it would’ve always ended like this — _but Napoleon had thought himself stronger than this. 

Maybe he just needs more time. After all, only a week has passed since he crossed the Russian border, never to return, so Napoleon nurses a to-go cup of coffee while tolerating the persistent ache still taunting him through every breath. The bitter taste distracts him momentarily, as does the sight of a large warehouse just beside an abandoned industrial terrain. He lets his thoughts run towards it, steering them far away from the weight in his chest. 

The economy has been slowly collapsing, but some industries are hit harder by the arrival of the Kaiju than others. After four oil drilling platforms had been destroyed by the beasts in a year, a general strike had been organised, droves of workers refusing to go out again. Always eager to make use of someone else's misfortune, Uncle had bought this warehouse just after the foreclosure of this particular offshoot facility of _Shell._

Napoleon realises he’s stopped walking, discomforted by the silence of the place. The sunrise paints beautiful colours on the asphalt but despite the light’s best efforts, the warehouse stands like a magnet of misery, managing to look grey in the rays of the sun. 

Napoleon sets his shoulders and persists: if anything else, Uncle will be a good distraction. Maybe some danger will push some sense back into his mind, and he’ll finally be able rid himself of his haunting thoughts. 

He drains the last of his coffee and throws the cup away while shaking his head. He’s seeing a positive side to a meeting with Uncle; he must have completely lost it. 

A copy of the documents lies safe in his hotel, but the original is burning a hole in his pocket. 

Napoleon takes a deep breath— it’s time to face the music, and finally get the fuck out of here once and for all. 

———

“Mister Salomon.” 

Uncle doesn’t look up from his work bench, but the click of the door betrays Napoleon’s entrance. 

The area is barely lit, save for a low hanging lightbulb that twists slowly above Uncle’s head. 

Napoleon can just see the greying hairs and the over large glasses that bely the identity of the unassuming man sitting in the middle of the mostly empty space. There is a low hum of machinery, but Napoleon doesn’t see the source. The only things visible are Uncle himself, his desk, and a single empty plastic chair. 

He wanders closer at an unhurried pace, familiar with Uncle’s habits. He will not talk nor look him in the eye before Napoleon sits down to face him. After more than five meetings in this very hall, Napoleon still hasn’t figured out the reason for it. He assumes some kind of power play; forcing a silent submission without a word. The only issue with that theory is that subtlety has never been Uncle’s forté. 

Napoleon drags the chair a little further from the desk, creating a high-pitched screeching sound that echoes against the walls. Satisfied, Napoleon lowers himself in the chair, flicking his jacket open and placing an ankle on a knee. An easy grin and lazy nod combine to fool even this devil incarnate. 

Uncle’s head snaps up the moment he sits down. Napoleon is treated to a toothy smile too smug for any circumstance. 

“My old friend,” Uncle says, “it has been some time. Please, how have you been?” His inflection is polite and his eyes are wide and friendly, but Napoleon knows better than to believe this farce. There is a tightness around his mouth that has Napoleon wishing for a gun, but more importantly: Uncle’s hands are in motion.

Uncle has tipped over a carton of sugar cubes and is placing them carefully in even rows. Their last conversation it had been a set of cards, the one before that were matches. Uncle tames his annoyance in one of two ways: fidgeting, or the application of pain. Napoleon supposes he should be glad that he’s chosen the former, this time. 

“I’ve been well, thank you,” Napoleon replies. “Busy, but aren’t we all?” 

Uncle flickers his gaze back to his growing stack, starting a new row on top of the first. “No. I have not been busy. I’ve been bored, in fact. I’m waiting on a particular package. A very important package.” 

“I have good news then,” Napoleon says, and flicks the flash-drive towards Uncle. It hits the sugar cubes, making them fall. He leans back and gives an apologetic chuckle. “Oops.” 

Any ire that that action could have drawn from Uncle is washed away by his haste to get his hands on the flash-drive. Uncle slams a drawer open and pulls a laptop out, pushing the cubes aside to make space. Napoleon watches as he boots up the machine, its screen adding a sickly colour to Uncle’s hungry expression.

“Some documents might need to be decrypted, but I’ve loaded the key onto the flash-drive as well, so that shouldn’t be more than a minor annoyance,” Napoleon says to fill in the silence. The intensity of Uncle’s eyes is not something he’s comfortable to witness, even if they’re not focused on him.

Uncle waves his words away with a hissed, “_Hush,_” his eyes never leaving the screen. 

Napoleon keeps quiet from then on. The sweat on the back of his neck starts to pool more intently as the wait drags on. Napoleon pushes his mind away from the million ways this could go horribly wrong — it might not be enough, Uncle might be able to see that he’d made a copy, he might — and instead watches the download bar raise percentile by percentile in the reflection of Uncle’s glasses. 

Napoleon is sure he’s about to go insane when the screen finally turns green and Uncle’s face becomes a horrifying mix of surprise and unmitigated delight. His smile fills his face so wide his eyes almost disappear into the folds of his skin. His teeth become blue and white as they catch the screen’s light. A soft laugh trips off his tongue, high pitched and child-like. It makes Napoleon’s stomach turn.

There is something fundamentally wrong about seeing a man like this overwhelmed with joy. Napoleon’s survival instinct flares as he recognises a predator satisfied. He’s only seen this expression once before— a memory he has quite successfully boxed away and hid. 

He tears his eyes away from the sickening scene and waits while Uncle clicks through the data with a slow building laugh. 

“I intended to discipline you, Mister Salomon, for not listening to my orders time and time again,” Uncle murmurs after what seems like an eternity. 

Napoleon looks away from ceiling at Uncle’s words. The laptop is still running, its vents now loudly buzzing while trying to cool the overworked machine. Uncle has turned it to the side. His attention is once again in his cubes, continuing his stacking as if there hadn’t been an interruption. 

Napoleon pastes a half smile on his face. “I hope I’ve made my disobedience worthwhile. Victoria knows not to expect obedience from me; I’ve always been stubborn, but she does expect quality. So. I did it, didn’t I?” 

They both know Uncle can’t deny it, not after his emotional outburst, but Napoleon doesn’t expect any agreement either. Napoleon waits him out

The sugar cubes tick together. Uncle starts the third row of his pyramid, and only looks up when the cubes stop wobbling. 

_“_I do care about discipline, _Lucien_. I am in fact supremely bothered by your actions against me and the disrespect you have shown.” Uncle takes a breath, calming himself. “But, as I now am suddenly very busy again, I do not wish to bother with your faults. You are not one to change, and I won’t waste my energy on hopeless causes. I only wish to never work with you again.” 

“If Victoria keeps to her part of our deal, you’ll never need to see me again,” Napoleon promises. 

Uncle looks up to gift him another sickening smile. “Then I suppose we have finally found something we can agree on.” 

Another silence falls, only broken by Uncle’s stacking of sugar and the laptop’s labouring hum. Occasionally, it gives a beep and Uncle knocks a pyramid over in his haste to check the pop-up. After some typing and a few murmurs, Uncle starts all over again with another stack of cubes. Napoleon watches three pyramids try and fail until he clears his throat. He needs to get out of here. 

“I want to leave you to your important work, Uncle,” he says with careful confidence. “So if you would be so kind as to allow my exit...” It still feels dirty, asking permission like a child, but leaving Uncle’s quarters without his say-so is the kind of mistake one only makes once, and Napoleon rather not resort to violence; it would make everything messy. 

Uncle makes him wait just another while, dropping the last sugar cube on top of the pyramid before asking: “You’ve not said anything that could lead them back to you?”

Napoleon watches the stack of cubes tilt back and forth and thinks about telling Illya about Uncle, about his father, about being abandoned and his love for art. He looks Uncle in the eye and thinks about all the secrets spilling from his lips, just because Illya had asked. 

“No,” Napoleon says. “Nothing.” 

Uncle twines his fingers together and lays his hands on the desk. “No slip ups. No mistakes?”

The whole thing was a mistake. Every word Napoleon ever said to Illya was a mistake. 

“You know me, Uncle, I don’t make any mistakes,” Napoleon says, grinning slightly. He forces his shoulders to relax as he shakes his head in an amused gesture. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

Frantic writing in the dark of the night. A confession spilling from his hands like blood. He doesn’t wonder how long he has to run from his own words. 

Uncle hums and stretches his middle finger to push the bottom row of the sugar cubes away. One by one, until the stack clatters all over his desk, some tumble over the edge, breaking into crystalline sand. “No regrets, then?”

Napoleon smiles wide, pushes a sharp laugh out of his chest that tears through his throat. But he sees the twitch in Uncle’s eye as he mirrors his smile— it’s enough, just enough to convince Uncle. It’s worth it. 

“No,” Napoleon lies. “Regrets are not my style.” 

Uncle nods, still smiling. He takes one of the cubes and places it on his tongue. Napoleon watches it starting to melt. “You may go,” Uncle says finally, around the crunch of sugar. “You want one?” 

Napoleon laughs again. “I’m not much of a sweet tooth, thank you.” 

He stands, deftly buttoning his suit jacket while keeping his face perfectly relaxed. The last time he’d lied to Uncle’s face it had ended in the electric chair. He can’t slip up now. 

His footsteps echo through the warehouse hall, setting a counterpoint to the ticking of sugar cubes being stacked up again. The door is barely a step away when Uncle interrupts his retreat with a soft sound. 

“And Mister Salomon?” Uncle says. 

Napoleon puts his hand against the cold iron door, waiting with his eyes closed and heart in his throat.

“Victoria would like to speak to you. You might not have any regrets, but she has many. She is not satisfied with your performance. Not satisfied at all.”

Napoleon represses the urge to flash into movement, run away and never look back. But he knows that would only have him hunted by yet another wolf. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Napoleon says instead. The words have barely left his mouth before he slips through the door. 

Only when the latch clicks shut and the afternoon sun streams on his face, Napoleon is able to breathe. He puts his trembling hands into his jacket pockets, gives himself exactly ten seconds, and then slaunters back to the road. 

A strangely sweet aftertaste haunts Napoleon for the rest of the night. He almost feels something gritty between his teeth, sharp and biting. Uncle’s toothy smile fills that night’s dream; speaking threat and pain with a crunch of sugar and the buzz of electricity. 

———

After Uncle, Napoleon flies to Italy, pretending it’s still a safe haven, even though it’s never truly been one. He isn’t ready for Victoria. Not yet. So he runs, just for a little bit. Just until he’s strong again. 

He ends up in a high-end casino in the middle of the tourist centre of Rome. It’s bustling with people desperately trying to take their last chance to enjoy life to the fullest. Napoleon consumes their manic desperation to make it his own. They stink with wealth, throwing around thousands like spare change. They don’t look twice when a smarmy American shows up in tailored suits to do the very same. 

Napoleon folds himself between them, winning $300.000 in one night and losing it all the next. He steps down the hierarchy of clubs and bars as his alcohol intake increases, going from golden rimmed glasses to the acid stench of puke in back alleys. He buys bodies grinding against him with overpriced bottles of champaign, flirtation with sparkling mojito’s and a listening ear with an endless tab of piss-coloured whiskey. By the end of the week, his bank account is empty of his exploits, and Napoleon has passed out at least thrice. 

He’s desperately trying to remember where he parked his stolen Mercedes when his vision suddenly shifts and Napoleon Solo, the great thief of the apocalypse, falls into the gutter behind a 24/7 bar named “The Suckling Tit”. 

Somehow, he doesn’t consider this his lowest point in life. 

Napoleon rakes a hand through his oily hair in a self-pitying gesture that only the dark sky acknowledges, and then cranes his head to find the single star bright enough to survive the assault of an illuminated city. His fuzzy brain gives him a memory like a spiteful gift, placing it over his vision like a badly edited scene transition; the past blurring out the present. 

Napoleon sees the thousands of stars shimmering above the Jaeger base. He feels the warm comfort of a body beside him, contrasting with the icy cold of snow underneath his back. He blinks again and realises the cold is probably the concrete he’s collapsed on, not the wonders of winter. He’s barely made this conclusion before something grabs him by the scruff of his suit jacket and something— or some_one_— hauls him out of the gutter. 

Napoleon is in the process of debating if he could take a quick power-nap before he’ll have to fight his way out of this, when the slush in his mind forms into a sharp knife of recognition, and the tip slices through Napoleon’s tongue. 

“Hound,” he mumbles, sounding less surprised than he feels. He blinks a couple of times to adjust to the streetlights invading his vision.

Victoria’s favourite guard dog has no reaction to his mumbling. He stays a stoic shadow of a man until it becomes clear that Napoleon isn’t going to stop being dead weight. He’s waiting for some sort of response to his glorious detective work. It must be said— recognising the face of a mercenary who goes through intense trouble to keep his identity secret, is a feat worthy of praise.

The Hound says nothing, but Napoleon is satisfied with the piercing glare that comes his way. Beggars must not be choosers, even if the helping hand knows twenty-six ways to kill him. 

Napoleon smiles back and is about 75% sure he’s going to vomit over his boss’ pet. “Well, this is humiliating. Couldn't you just leave me there? I was comfortable.” 

The glare becomes more pronounced. Napoleon whispers to himself, “Twenty-seven, or twenty-eight, if he’s creative with a gun.” 

“Vinciguerra wants to speak to you,” the Hound grinds out. “Your team wants to speak to you.”

“Oh,” Napoleon says, and he allows the Hound to sling his arm over his neck. “How delightful, where are we going?” 

The Hound drags him up and begins to lead him to a car, and Napoleon resigns himself to getting no answer. He’s never been a man of many words— if he is human at all. The most he’s seen the Hound talk was when Napoleon had stolen all bullets out of his gun and replaced them with blanks. But that was mostly Serbian curses, so he’s not sure that counts. 

But just before the Hound slams the car door shut, Napoleon gets his answer after all, said in his dark voice: “Your office.” 

Napoleon lets his head fall against the car window, landing with a satisfying smack. The engine roars on and the car jolts with movement. Napoleon turns around to say a mournful goodbye to the Mercedes, watching the beautiful machine becoming smaller and smaller through the back window. He looks away when he realises that the gutter had been only ten feet away from it all along. 

He still isn’t ready for Victoria, but in his drunken stupor he is able to remember that he never truly had been. After that he finally, blissfully, passes out. 


	2. The Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *resurfaces out of a sea of boxes* I am alive! The moving out has been done but the moving in is still in progress. I managed to wrangle good wifi for y'all just in time. In this episode of Napoleon's Bad Not Good Year (s?) we'll meet OC's! And a certain someone named Victoria will take the stage as well. Love yall!

“Look what the cat dragged in— or the dog, rather.” 

Napoleon hears a sneering voice as he walks into the team’s office room— if one can call it that. He’s greeted by the sight of two dirty combat boots propped up on the desk he used to claim as his own. Now, it’s filled with four monitors, a large keyboard with rainbow-coloured lights underneath the keys, and at least sixteen empty diet coke cans. 

A woman in her late 20’s raises a burning cigarette to him as a mocking salute, and blows a cloud of smoke in his direction. Her once blong hair now is painted black, but the natural colour is starting to show at her roots. She has it in a ponytail that she’s pulled through the back of a grey hat. The shadow it casts over her face doesn’t hide her shit eating grin. Her outfit is a combination of purple skin tight jeans and a green wool sweater Napoleon guesses she stole from a math professor. 

“I see your fashion sense has not improved since I’ve been gone,” Napoleon says and pushes her legs off the desk. 

Muse drops her feet to the ground but otherwise ignores the jibe. She takes another drag and then continues her speech to the room at large. “Three weeks, he said. Three weeks and then he’ll finally be free— rich enough to pay off his debt with dear Queen Bitch.” She gestures dramatically, arms wide as if to invite applause, and ends her performance with relish, “Three weeks, do you all remember that?” 

“I sure do,” Thomas says, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, but he’s smiling like he wishes he had popcorn instead. The little brat has always enjoyed a spectacle— particularly if it was in Napoleon’s expense. 

“_Months_ later and here he is,” Muse says shaking her head while dousing the cigarette in one of the coke cans.“Russia was a mess Lucien, it was truly a pleasure to see you fail so expertly. We couldn’t have done it better.” 

Napoleon smiles and forces himself to sound natural. “I didn’t expect a party, but this is not the welcome I’d hoped for.” 

Before Muse is able to mock his unwillingness to defend himself — Napoleon knows she’s itching for it — Thomas interrupts by saying, “You were supposed to never return? What happened?” 

Napoleon turns to him and categorises his frown as a genuine one. For all his enjoyment of Muse’s teasing, he seems to actually care about his success. Napoleon almost wants to give him an honest answer, but he knows better than to open himself up to a bunch of criminals, even if he’s particularly fond of this lot. Besides, the last thing he wants to do is talk about it. That doesn’t exactly help his plan to erase the past months from his mind. He’d been doing quite well in Rome. 

So instead Napoleon shrugs and finds himself an empty chair. He slouches in it slightly, looking at his nails in practiced disinterest. “You know how things go, Tommy. Bad intel, unforeseen security, shit luck. But I still accomplished what she wanted from me. I’m only here for the debrief.” 

He looks up again and sees that Jemaine has joined the group, hovering in the doorway next to Thomas. Napoleon moves his gaze around and adds, “Also, a little doggy told me that my team wanted to speak to me. So I’m _here _specifically out of personal curiosity. Which one of you wanted to talk to dear old me?” 

Like a shitty B-side comedy, the three all look at each other in equal parts confusion and betrayal, until Muse finally breaks with a laboured sigh. 

“Fine,” she says, putting her boots back on Napoleon’s desk. “I was poking about trying to figure out where the fuck you’d gone, and the Hound got on my tail for it. I didn’t even come near to Victoria’s databases but apparently I’m not even allowed to trace you anymore. The Queen must have seen taken it as something it wasn’t.” She glares at Napoleon. He’s not naive enough to believe it’s frustration instead of embarrassment. 

“Aww,” Napoleon says, not able to resist. “You guys were worried about me. Be careful, otherwise I’m gonna end up in the delusion that you actually missed me as well.” 

They all roll their eyes simultaneously— except for Jemaine, who crosses his arms and looks away. 

Napoleon waits them out, ticking his fingers against his knees until the air in the room slowly shifts again. 

“So the deal is still on?” Jemaine asks finally, his soft spoken voice a contrast to the strength he hides underneath cardigans and fitted trousers. Once a basketball player and martial artist, he became one of Victoria’s brawn when he got indebted with the wrong kinds of people. He had flourished ever since Napoleon plucked him out of the Punch-and-Run division of Victoria’s business and put him to work as a researcher. He goes through the databases Muse hacks for them with a fine-tooth comb. He was the one who put together what the Russians were working on. 

Napoleon makes a note to himself to figure out a way he can get Jemaine to look through the files without getting them both killed. 

“As far as I know, it is,” Napoleon says, not willing to let any more of his doubts show; for his sake and Jemaine’s.“I got her the documents. They’re already in Uncle’s hands and I’m sure he’s doing horrible things with them in her name. So I should be out of here in a moment.” 

“Hmm,” Muse says. Her fingers trail over tattoos she’s assured him have nothing to do with her preferred alias, never mind that her sleeve is collection of cover art of a band carrying the same name.

Thomas presses his lips together and sighs. “So what do we do in the meantime?” 

“Whatever you were doing before I came in here? Have you lost the ability to think for yourself the moment I arrived?” Napoleon shakes his head with a snort. “Though— Muse, I do need you to check any activity on my aliases. I want to be certain nothing of Vincenzo White compromised my other identities.” 

Muse salutes.“Yes, Boss, of course, at your service.” She spins back to her screens despite her sarcasm and lets her fingers run along the keyboard like a virtuoso. 

Napoleon sighs. “I am not your boss, Muse, but thank you.” 

Muse doesn’t look away from her screen but Napoleon is willing to bet a fortune that she’s rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry,” she says, “we know you only say that so you won’t feel responsible when one of us inevitably dies in the field.” 

Napoleon scrunches up the nearest piece of paper into a ball and bats it expertly at her head.“You have nothing to worry about,” he says. “You’re never in the field anyway.” 

This sets Muse off on a rant about the dangers of exploding computers and the statistics of fires in old office buildings, the pace of her fingers only increasing as she argues her case. Jemaine sighs longsufferingly and passes Napoleon a cup of coffee just the way he likes it. Even Thomas hangs around, arguing back with Muse as he flicks Napoleon looks that say, _glad you’re back, man, _in a way he’ll never say out loud. 

Napoleon realises with a start that he hasn’t thought about Ill— _him,_ since he walked in here. He wonders how he can fall back into this so easily, while he still feels like he’s been broken into tiny pieces, each of them leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way back to Russia.

Napoleon tunes out the bickering and just watches, slowly seeing the shadow of a person he could embody again, erasing all the parts that don’t fit the shape. Not here, of course, this place is too close to Victoria, too close to the poison that Solo has become. But he can see the person he could fit himself into once more, and all the variations therein. 

The only question to ask himself is this: what does he want to do? 

Napoleon sips the too hot coffee and realises with a wave of dread that he has no idea. 

— _what he wants is far away, angry and betrayed _— 

Luckily, he doesn’t have long to ponder this existential crisis, because the Hound slams a door open and grumbles, “Salomon, come.” 

Napoleon snaps up from his chair, wringing his hands together with a half-smile. “Thank you, Hound, the anticipation was killing me.” He feels his team’s eyes on his back as he falls into step behind the Hound, following him through the doorway, and slipping back into yet another role. 

———

Napoleon pushes the glass door open at the Hound’s nod. He walks into the grand office the exact moment Victoria turns to face him. 

Her long white dress pools over the floor and she’s sitting in a chair more suited to be called a throne. The golden rings in her ears jingle as she tilts her head to the side, scanning Napoleon up and down like a cat admiring a particularly well bred mouse. 

The door falls closed behind him, and despite the openness of the room, Napoleon feels a sensation very similar to that first day in Juvie.

The silence persists, only broken by the ticking of a silver clock on the wall. Every second of quiet staring adds another stone to his stomach, making his smile harder to hold. He steps forward, afraid he will break apart in the static wait. Her patience is terrifying and unbeatable, so he knows not to try. He doesn’t want to give her that satisfaction.

He makes the first move. 

“Victoria,” he says, pressing a hand to his heart, “Memories do not hold true to witnessing your beauty with my own eyes.” 

Victoria’s lips pull into a slow smile, millimetre by millimetre. “Your flattery might be something I’ve missed, but your attempts to placate me… I did not, Napoleon. Though I do so admire your efforts.” 

She draws a finger across her desk to pull a plate of thinly cut apple slices closer. Her sharpened black nails pierce one of the paper-thin pieces. She smiles again, motioning towards the chair across from her desk, and orders: “Sit.” 

His name on her tongue makes Napoleon sick to his stomach; it feels like the tug of a leash. Napoleon watches her bite of half of the apple piece, and feels disturbed in a way he wishes he wasn’t, and then shakes his head. “I’m feeling restless. I prefer to stand for now.” 

Victoria’s smile doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow slightly and a shiver runs down Napoleon’s spine. He leans against the wall in an effort to banish the instinctive tension in his body. He has to fight to keep his arms loose, one hand in his pocket and the other relaxed by his side. An image blooms in his mind of a figure standing tall, full of power. Napoleon shakes the thought away before it can bear a name. 

“Take a drink then,” Victoria says. Her nails dig further into the remainder of the apple piece, the white now blood red where her lipstick left it’s marks. She puts it back on her plate, freeing her hand to gesture to a side table with a graceful flick. “I insist.”

Napoleon suppresses a sigh and picks up a heavy glass with thick wands and a geometric pattern that reflects the light against his hands. _Weapon_, a shrill part of him whispers, which he quells with a genial smile. “I hope you didn’t lace them this time.” 

Victoria makes an amused sound. “Would you truly mind?” She leans over the desk toward him and continues with a purr, “You don’t look so well, Napoleon. You could use a rest.” 

Napoleon merely chuckles. He fills the glass with water, ignoring the plethora of alcohol on the table. 

“Oh?” Victoria raises an eyebrow at his choice of drink, “No whiskey, no gin, no vodka… Should I have brought in the wine, or have you changed your vices?” 

Napoleon lowers himself on a loveseat diagonally across Victoria’s desk. He faces to the side, but enough to see her from his periphery at all times. He can choose to look at her or away, and even that tiny amount of power makes him relax minutely. “You deserve my full attention, my dear.” 

This time, the words rolls smoothly off his tongue. He feels a hint of mirth roll around his chest, and takes petty pleasure at the annoyance blooming in Victoria’s eyes. 

Victoria says nothing, just watches him. 

Napoleon takes it as a momentary draw, and smiles his first true smile. This is the time to strike. “Now, what do you need from me? Uncle confirmed the delivery and the _quality_ of the package he received, has he not? Yet, there are quite a few zero’s missing on my bank account.” He pauses, turns to look her straight in the eye, sharpening his expression without losing his air of nicety. “We had a deal, Victoria. It’s time you held up your end.” 

Victoria presses her lips together thinly. “You know I’m not amused by your performance.” 

“You never are,” Napoleon quips. “But I don’t see how this is relevant. Uncle must have contacted you by now. You know he’s already miles deep in whatever project you’ve ordered him to complete.” Napoleon tilts his head sideways curiously, but Victoria does not respond, so he continues with a shrug, “You already know that I’ve brought you everything you desired and more. My… _performance_, is not yours to care about anymore, because after this, you’ll never have to work with me again.” 

“Ah,” Victoria says, clasping her hands together and leaning forward again. “We both know that that won’t be the case. We’ll always be in the same circles, Napoleon. Even if I agree to the terms of our _previous—’ _she enunciates the word with narrowed eyes — “deal, that does not mean you’re free from me.” 

Her smile is like a slap in the face. Napoleon’s ears ring. 

“Are you saying you do not intent to terminate our contract, as per the deal?” Napoleon asks, watching bemusedly as the water in his glass starts to slosh over the edges. He tenses his hand to still it, but the trembling continues. 

“I’ve not said such thing, I am merely pointing out the nativity in your plans.” Victoria stands to grab a glass of her own, pouring it full of red wine while continuing, “I’ll keep to the deal. You’ll not be expected to work under my name anymore, and I won't bother you as you work… independently. No sabotaging, no blacklisting. ” She smiles brightly, suddenly cheerful and sweet. “Congratulations, Mister Solo, you are free to go. Unless, of course, you prefer to work here still, I know you’ve grown quite close to your team…”

“No, thank you,” Napoleon says, returning the smile. “Forgive me for not taking your word on it, am I sensing a ‘but’?”

Victoria takes a sip of her wine and swans around her desk, taking smooth steps in his direction. The fabric of her dress brush against Napoleon’s knees. “_But_, you’ve not completed the contract as we made it. You’d given an estimate of one month, and instead it was it was five.” 

“There were complications,” Napoleon says. “You of all people should understand.” 

Victoria waves his excuses away, leaning closer. “I’ve given you more patience than you deserve, dear Napoleon, over our years together.” She places her fingers along his jaw, tilting his face up to face her. Napoleon keeps his hands tightly on his knees, knuckles turning white, to withstand the intense and sudden desire to drown Victoria in her wine. Not that it’s a practical idea, but it’s the spirit that counts. 

“I’d planned for a few weeks extra time, a month at most,” Victoria says. “I know about your proclivities. You love to amuse yourself with your work and, as such, draw it out longer than you should. I tolerated this fault of yours, because I’ve come to expect your proficiency in accomplishing the task at hand. But four months over contract is intolerable, no matter the results. Simply put, I am not satisfied.” 

She leans back again, allowing Napoleon the space to breathe once more. His heart races almost as fast as his thoughts. He’d known Victoria would be disgruntled, but he’d not allowed himself to think about the consequences. For months, he had tried to push away the future at all costs. Until he couldn’t anymore. 

“You owe me a favour still,” Victoria says, when it becomes evident Napoleon isn’t going to speak. “A job, some time when I need it. I’ll pay you your usual fee, this is not a request for free labor. It is just that you won’t be able to refuse it.” She smiles wider. “I’ll save it for a particular exciting one, I know you’re going to be bored to death without me.” 

Napoleon wants to laugh. A deep rumble starts to grow in his belly almost manically but he’s strong enough to push it away. She’s letting him go. She’s untying the chain and undoing the leash. A favour is what she wants, _ha. _She’ll keep that chip in her pocket for a long time, her love for ownership greater than her wits. By the time she’ll call it in Napoleon will be long gone, hidden under ten layers of aliases and schemes.

“That seems fair enough,” Napoleon says, standing with finality. “You know how to reach me.”

He feels Victoria’s eyes on him as he walks to the door. 

“Of course, always,” she says sweetly, “And you know that one word to the wrong person will lead you into ruin?”

Napoleon halts at her words, his hand against the cold of the glass. “Victoria, I am tired of your threats. Spell it out or let me go.” 

He hears movement behind him, the click clack of needle thin heels, coming closer. 

“I might not have you in my employ anymore, but I still can withhold you from others. With a word, you’ll be nothing more than another creature of the dark, and we both know dear, that you’ve potential for so much more.” 

At the end her voice is a purr almost to his ear, her hand lays lightly, but possessively, on his back. 

Napoleon twists around to get rid of it. He looks her in the eye and laughs. 

He lost a name for her: everything she has on Solo hasn’t been relevant since he left Russia. Everything she has on him can’t matter anymore. 

“I’ll become a security guard, or an accountant instead,” Napoleon muses, “maybe even a Jaeger pilot. I was top of my class, you know.” Napoleon leans against the door, but realises too late that it’s pull, not push. He’s trapped between the glass and Victoria. He doesn’t let the spike of sudden terror show. 

“I say that I am free of you, I mean in every way, Victoria,” he says, with a voice deceptively steady. “You hold no power over me. Except if you want to break the deal, in which case those contacts will know the exact worth of your word.” 

Victoria smiles dangerously. “Oh, darling, you don’t have it in you. You’re a thief, nothing less, nothing more.” 

Napoleon’s expression doesn’t twitch, but he has to work for it— she’s more right than she realises. She can’t know that, however. “We’ll see about that.”

Victoria reaches out, her finger touches Napoleon’s cheek gently, and her voice is almost intimate when she murmurs, “I know you, Napoleon Solo. Remember that, will you?” 

Napoleon’s throat closed up. Victoria pats his cheek and her smile softens, more kind than vicious—more false than true.

She steps away and Napoleon rushes out of the room without another word.

The Hound watches him go, standing guard in the hallway; his expression as blank as ever. He follows in complete yet intensely present silence. Napoleon focuses on the sound of his footsteps as they march back to the office. Victoria’s voice echoes in his mind, ethereal and seductive. Napoleon ignores it, and — carefully — doesn’t believe her. 

———

When he returns to the office, some of the team’s usual professional acumen seems to have returned to them. Instead of lounging about, Muse seems to be three miles deep in a program of some kind. Jemaine is highlighting printed out records with coffee stains on them, and even Thomas barely notices when Napoleon enters the room. It’s the Hound stomping inside behind him that draws the attention of the team, and everyone puts down their work at once and waits with bated breath. 

Napoleon smiles at them, genuinely, and says, “It seems like I’ll be leaving you for good this time.” 

Their reactions are individual, but similar in emotion. Muse drops her head back and breathes out a long sigh of relief. Thomas slams his hand against his desk, rattling the coffee cup on it, and whispers “_yes,_” fiercely to himself. 

Jemaine’s reaction is less vocal, but hits Napoleon like a heavy wave. A warm, slow smile spreads over his face, lips drawn in relief and pride that Napoleon sees are meant for him, not for himself. Jemaine is relieved, yes, overjoyed even, but not in the way the others are. Jemaine just seems happy that Napoleon got out.

It’s an act of selflessness Napoleon can’t even begin to process, so he looks away. 

“I propose a night out,” Muse says, breaking a tension Napoleon is almost sure he’s imagining. “A last hurrah.” 

Jemaine finally stops smiling so heavily and retreats back to his usual calm expression. He nods towards Muse. “I agree. This moment deserves some celebration for all, and it is a good opportunity to show Sal our appreciation for being our leader for the last three years.” He pauses and tilts his head to the papers on his desk. “I am almost done here, so in a few hours we could go.” 

Thomas groans. “Work can wait buddy, I need to get out of this place right now. I need a fucking drink.” 

“I’ll deny this if it ever comes up again,” Muse begins, “but I agree with Thomas. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway, and Sal looks like he’s about to fall over from being in the Bitch’s proximity for too long.” 

“She is not actually poisonous, Muse, no matter how many conspiracy theories you believe in this week,” Jemaine says with a resigned frown on his face. “It’s barely the afternoon, I didn’t think we have steeped low enough to start drinking so early.” 

Napoleon laughs and slaps a hand on Jemaine’s shoulder. “We have, Jemaine. We always have been.” 

Jemaine shrugs his hand off his shoulder but his lips twitch upwards. “I suppose this isn’t too urgent. I will keep to tonic until it’s 6, however.” 

“You do what you want, old man.” Thomas has already shrugged into his coat— something more appropriate for a workout than a night out — and throws Muse’s leather jacket toward her. “Are we going to our regular spot?” 

This question is directed at Napoleon, so he nods. “It’s a night of goodbyes; it’s appropriate to go the familiar route.” 

Thomas grins. “We’ll do a tour then — all our old haunts.” 

“An evening out was the plan,” Jemaine argues, but he’s wrapping a scarf around his neck despite his protestations, “Not the whole _night._” 

“You always say that, but you end up being the one dragging us to one club or another at 3 am,” Muse says. 

Napoleon rolls his eyes at the bickering and holds the door open for Jemaine, who is threatening to walk into it as he’s arguing back to Muse. “— _besides_, there is nothing wrong with appreciating a bit of dancing, so I don’t know what your point is.” 

“You do not dance when you’re drunk, you grind against the closest victim you can find,” Muse says. “The fratboy you’re supposed to be reveals himself after exactly four shots. I’ve been keeping track and warning Sal away from you when you get too close to that danger zone.” 

Napoleon laughs again and swings an arm around them both, feeling like he’s standing between two kittens fighting their hearts out— granted that one of them could beat his face into a pulp given a fraction of a second, and the other could make his bank account disappear before he could blink. “Friends, friends, please. Don’t hurt each other on my last evening here. You’re allowed to hate each other again to your heart’s content tomorrow, but for tonight we’re gonna pretend we like one another a little bit.” 

They both redirect their glare at him, now unified in by a shared target of annoyance, but neither make a move to push him off. They keep in step while they trail behind a Thomas on the prowl of a place to drink himself into a stupor. Napoleon smiles, despite the evening chill, he can’t help but feel warm, pressed so close between two people he knows a little too well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what yall think of this introduction to this group of characters, yall gonna get to know them better through the story and I might have grown Attached as I was in my writer's cave working on this story all on my lonesome. 
> 
> Any and all comments are appreciated and loved and fuel the fire, my apologies if I've not responded yet to comments on Cold or other fic, I've got little time and so I tend to reply to tgo comments first! I've just waited so long to hear back from yall on this story, so I'm Excited no matter how little time I've got to actually reply.


	3. Soar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last hurrah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A night of goodbyes', a choice to make.

After a short while without any further arguments, they turn the corner into a small plaza. Across from them there is a deceptively conventional wine bar called “The Morning Sun.” Its generic logo of a wine glass, and the menu out front decorated with vineyard vines seem purposefully chosen to obscure the gem inside. 

Thomas leads them through a thin hallway to push open two grand oak doors. The moment it’s opened even just a crack, the sound of dozens of voices loudly talking greets them like a welcoming choir. They follow in, walking to their usual table without a word, and Napoleon regards the space around him, realising that this will truly be his last time here. 

Where he had expected some kind of melancholy, his chest feels strangely empty. He doesn’t know if it’s because there is nothing he can add to the persistent darkness inside of him already, or if it feels like he’s already said goodbye when he left. Without even knowing he had. 

As the bartender greets them by the false names they’d given long ago, Napoleon realises it’s not that he doesn’t feel sad that he won’t be here again. It’s that he’s not the same person who came here every Friday after a long week of preparing the next heist. Not the same man who stood in the corner, sipping rich reds while a small jazz band filled the room with song, vibrating beautifully against the rounded ceiling that this repurposed church had given the bar. 

Religious imagery is just visible between the wooden panels with the wines and snacks available. Napoleon spies the Virgin Mary peeking between rows of bottles stored in a rack. He remembers exactly where Muse had put a small camera the first time they came here, to insure that they’ll always have eyes on their backs as they try to enjoy the night. 

Thomas launches into a bragging monologue about how he had found this place. It’s a story they all have heard in various forms over the years, and it turns into a dialogue when Jemaine jumps in to correct him on certain facts. Muse and Napoleon ignore them both and move towards the bar, where their usual orders are already being prepared by Juliano, his golden tooth glinting in the light of the candles hanging from the ceiling. 

“Good to see you again, Mister Silver and Miss Avery, I almost thinking I lost my most favoured guests.” His English is halting but formal, learned through watching Downton Abbey and Doctor Who, or so he’d told Napoleon once. “You certainly, Mister Silver. Where have you been, if I may ask?” 

Napoleon smiles as he takes the tray with their glasses and an assortment of finger food. “Business took me far, Juliano, but I am glad to be back as well.” 

Juliano nods seriously, a bit of his usual smiling demeanour failing. “I am glad certainly. I have heard— the news told many terrible stories. Horrific. The Kaiju come closer and closer, and I was afraid truly, for your safety.” Then he suddenly smiles again, clasping his hands together grandly. “But! You are back, no wounds in body, as far as I can tell. So take these drinks on the house, for living still!” 

“Thank you,” Muse replies. “We appreciate that.” 

“No need to thank me. Now shoo.” Juliano motions his hands as if to push them away from the bar. “Enjoy your night, my friends. Tell me if you need anything.” 

Napoleon smiles and nods, a little lost for words at this admission of concern. But he’s put back into motion by a jab of Muse’s elbow in his side, having to keep the tray from tilting over. He follows her back to the table, keeping a healthy distance to insure the safety of their drinks. 

———

Thomas lives up to his word. After dinner and an ambitious amount of wine at Juliano’s, the four of them string along the bars and clubs that line the winding streets of the town. 

Napoleon’s head is pounding from the shot he maybe shouldn’t have drunk despite Thomas’s dare, and from the heavy bass coming out of the large sound-system across the dance floor. Muse’s prediction became reality as well. Napoleon feels the familiar sway of Jemaine behind him, hands on his hips, moving them with the sturm und drang of the crowd around them. But her promise to protect Napoleon from Jemaine’s drunken wiles seems to have lost priority to necking some girl she’s got wrapped in her arms. 

Jemaine’s lips are hot on his neck. Napoleon realises that no amount of drinking will make him be able to step back into this part of _before._ He disentangles himself from Jemaine, motioning to the bar as if he’s going to get another drink. Jemaine doesn’t even really seem to notice, letting go easily and swaying by himself instead. Napoleon gives him half a minute before he’s found someone else. 

It takes some effort but Napoleon flows through the masses of drunken couples to finally breach an area with enough space to use his arms. He slips past the bar, hoping none of the team is watching him, and goes to the bathroom instead.

The stench isn’t overwhelming, but with Napoleon’s stomach already upset, it’s enough to push him away from the stalls. He finds a door open with just a crack and he peaks inside, realising it’s the janitor’s area, and it’s empty. He closes the door behind him, shutting out the constant hum of sound, and only then notices how heavy it had been. Like the absence finally allows him to breathe again. He doesn’t know what is happening; normally he’d be letting himself loose better than the rest of them, but Napoleon feels like he’s hit a wall he can’t push himself through. His head aches, he reeks of sweat and sweet cocktails, and the only reason his hands aren’t shaking is because he’s got them tightly in his hair. God, he must look like a mess. 

Napoleon sits down on the floor, trying to get some stability in the moving fog around him, trying to understand why he can’t just— be himself again, or at least fall back into Lucien with ease. Like he had at the office. Why is this so difficult now? What if one of them walks in here and sees him?

Napoleon clenches his jaw and shakes his head jerkily. It must be an issue with his tolerance, he’s just not used to this nightlife anymore. On base, alcohol wasn’t widely available and free weekends were few and far between. And even when there was some, Napoleon had never felt the need to drink more than becoming a little buzzed, a bit soft around the edges. It was fun enough to watch the squad devolve in laughter as they played silly drinking games and see the brightness in their eyes. Being drunk only would make him miss things, things he wanted to engrave in his mind forever. The feeling of a warm hand clasped around his wrist, or murmured praises in his ear with a breath that only just slightly smelled like whiskey. 

Napoleon pulls on his hair harshly to rip the thoughts away. This doesn’t help him. He’s built up a tolerance before. He’s just has to do it again. Distraction. This is a night of celebration, damn it. This is supposed to make it worth it, everything he did. Napoleon stands and ignores the way he almost falls over with the sudden movement. He can do this. He’ll get through it. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

Napoleon walks back into the whelm of overstimulation and lets it drown him. Jemaine finds him and pushes another drink in his hands with a loopy smile. Napoleon throws it back to cheering and Thomas’ booming laugh. He pulls a grin out of the burn as it goes down his throat and says, “More.” 

After that things get blurry. They end up in another place, Napoleon is vaguely sure. The world is horizontal and steady as he lays across a lounge sofa. His head is pillowed against Jemaine’s chest, and Muse’s feet are flung over his knees. He’s mumbling about something important, something he shouldn’t be talking about. One of those secrets that can turn into a weapon if caught by the right hands. But Jemaine’s hands are gentle as he strokes Napoleon’s neck, and he makes the occupational hums of acknowledgement, even though Napoleon knows he isn’t actually listening 

“Just— Just, something real,” Napoleon says, barely hearing himself over the music. “I just wanted that, even for a little while. But— I can’t. No one knows me. Not truly. Never— truly.” 

Napoleon doesn’t know how long they sit there. But by the time Thomas bullies them to another place he feels marginally better— that is to say that he feels like he’s about to melt into a puddle and watch the world turn into hypnotic patterns around whatever is left of him. But he can walk, so he’s following the group as they stumble into the cold. 

That last until he’s the one dragging them along, drawing in by a display of different televisions in the window of another bar. 

“C’mon, Sal,” Thomas complains. “This doesn’t seem like fun at all.” 

Napoleon ignores him, already walking inside, his eyes tracking the screens. Each of them broadcasts a different news outlet: CNN, Rai 1, the BBC, TF1 and others he doesn’t recognise. But Napoleon’s only focused on the Russian TV personality, repeating the important highlights of the past month. The sound is turned off, but neon green subtitles run below the flashes of news. 

Napoleon strains to read it, moving toward the bar to get close. He vaguely aware of Muse and Jemaine settling down beside him and ordering beers. Thomas flops down in the middle of a story about coastal cities losing more and more citizens to mass migration inland, and Napoleon has to conclude that there is nothing about him, nothing about the break in or— or Illya. 

He got out clean. No mention is good news. There is no reason to feel disappointed about it. 

He’d known that the information he’d left behind wouldn’t hit the news so fast— in fact he’s counting on it. He’d given himself a month, at least, before he’ll have to run, leave the vicinity of Uncle to avoid the fall out of a midnight impulse. It’s been two weeks and counting, and he got through the worst of it. He’s ready to go. 

The team talks lively around him and Napoleon knows they’ll be hit as well. He hadn’t mentioned Victoria partly knowing he’d never survive her wrath, but also to avoid his team being implicated. But Napoleon isn’t naive; giving up Uncle might as well have been offering them up on a silver platter. For all his talk, Uncle has never been about loyalty, even his alignment with Victoria had been about self preservation above anything else.

Napoleon hopes that they can get away if Uncle leads them to Victoria. He hopes they can get out of the prison of debt she’s build around them all. But it’s only a slight chance, and Napoleon takes the greenish cocktail Thomas ordered for him and drinks it without tasting it, knowing that he’ll never stop hurting the people around him. It’s a part of him, by now. 

He doesn’t know when they leave exactly, but at once there is a flurry of goodbyes. They all know Victoria won’t allow them to work together again, reasonably afraid Napoleon will take them away from her— he would if he could. They don’t deserve to be there, not like he did. 

So as Muse says, “Keep me updated on your failures,” Napoleon knows she doesn’t actually mean it. And while Jemaine’s hug lasts just a second too long, Napoleon knows he’ll be absolutely fine without him. Even Thomas looks at him with some form of regret, but Napoleon grins wide, mumbling out words that he’d never say sober, but still needed to be said. 

“You’re going to do great, Tommy. I’m proud of you. You’ve learned well. Just don’t forget to study the blueprints, you— you always forget that.” 

Thomas rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah boss, I know. I know.”

“Not your boss.” 

There is a huff and a clap on his back, and then suddenly he’s alone. The door closes with the tingle of a bell and Napoleon turns away unconsciously from the waft of cold air. In his confusion, it takes a while to realise that the bartender is trying to get his attention. 

“You, yeah, you. Do you need a drink or do you need a ride?” 

The Russian news is still going, the streets are dark and Napoleon has nowhere to go home to. He smiles and says, “Drink.” 

———

Napoleon leans over the bar, the room tilting with his movements, lagging just a millisecond behind. The voice of a country singer lamenting his lost love spills like grease over Napoleon’s body, and he would have asked the bartender to turn off the radio, if he wasn’t already caught up in a monologue worthy of his fourth glass of whiskey.

“— and they always tell you, to be what you want to be. I knew what I wanted to be my whole life. I had it figured ou— out. And then! And_ then _it was all ruined, things— things happened and now I just don’t know anymore.” 

Napoleon drops his head in his hands and almost tips over his glass in the process. The bartender flashes forward with the reflexes of an experienced drunk people minder, and puts the glass in a less precarious position. 

“Don’t know what to tell ya, buddy,” he says in tired tones. Somewhere in the back of Napoleon’s mind it registers that he might be overstaying his welcome, but the ocean of self-pity drowns that fact. 

“Maybe try to go back to that first idea? Give it another ago, you know? Things happen, but if you were certain about it for your whole life, well… maybe you were on to something. First instincts are often true.” 

Napoleon nods, lets the words mull inside his head. There is something tempting about it, pushing everything away and just take the road he’d build for himself. He knew what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be, and what he is, for such a long time. Illy— Russia doesn’t change that. 

“I just don’t know if I can do it anymore,” Napoleon mumbles to the bartender, more honest to a stranger than he wants to be towards himself. “What if I fail?”

“You’re not solving it by drinking your problems away, though it does give me a regular client so I’m the last person to complain about that. But for my mother’s kind soul, I’ll tell you just to try it.” The bartender puts the last of the glasses into the sink, washing them off with quick efficiency. “Doesn’t hurt to try.” 

“‘Suppose not,” Napoleon says. His eyes begin to droop and he’s suddenly aware of the exhaustion pushing between his shoulder blades. He attempts to get his wallet out of his jacket pocket with one hand, until he gives up and retrieves his other hand from under his chin. With combined efforts, he succeeds in placing enough tens on the counter to cover the drinks and the emotional labor. Napoleon pushes himself of the stool, leaving the bar and it’s greasy music behind. 

———

The thing is, Napoleon always wanted to be a criminal. He takes after his father that way. 

Anthony “Tony” Dewitt never lived his life on the right side of the tracks— he committed petty theft to pay the bills, insurance fraud to impress the ladies, and ran gambling schemes just for fun. So it happened, unexpectedly but not surprisingly, that Napoleon was conceived in a beautiful vintage convertible that was most definitely stolen. 

The baby boy was brought into the world like most things are: bloody, screaming, and kicking. But he was met with tears of joy and ecstatic laughter, so for the young family it seemed like the small-time criminal graduated from his darker path to becoming a happy-go-lucky dad. 

He kept some business on the side; tiny jobs, favours of friends, “Dear, don’t worry about it, we’ll have more spare for Christmas this year, a vacation perhaps?” And despite some snapping, muttering and glaring, Tony kept his glory days mostly in the past, focusing instead on this sudden treasure brought to them without even needing to steal a thing. 

But golden years turned into dust, when his wife’s lungs caught up to the consequences of ash. A surgery complication and absence of donation resulted in young Napoleon being without a mother from the tender age of 4. 

Crushed under the weight of grief and responsibility both, Tony’s path took a sharp turn deeper into the underbelly of the world. He gathered the criminal tendrils of his past and pushed them harder, grew them grander, in an effort to escape the darkness of mourning. Petty theft became complex heists, fraud became cons, and the gambling schemes were now a ploy within a ploy: meeting rich marks to con through a single night’s game. Before Napoleon left primary school, his father had inserted himself as a 24 carat diamond in the local criminal rings. 

And Tony took his son with him, every step of the way. 

Napoleon learned card tricks before he could fully read, flicking through the flashy shapes and pictures with deft fingers and badly contained glee. He learned to flee under the table and call for dad when the suited men came to the door and ran the bell. He learned to hate the cops and grow his greed, see the established systems as puzzles to exploit instead of rules to follow. His father took him along for cons like they were a visit to the zoo, when he needed people to trust a man with an angelic boy in his arms more than they should. 

His love for art and museum trips were cheered on, as they were a good carrot for a learning thief. The promise was, that one day, his favorite paintings would be his own. 

Napoleon learned how to cry on command, act sick or puke, and the exact tone his voice needed to be to get every person in the vicinity to help him. He was good at it, perfect even, and he hoarded the booming pride in his father’s voice every time he did his job well.

Napoleon adored these lessons, only conceding to school when it had relevance to his father’s job. His father’s friends came to the house every day to prepare and scheme, and there was always one of them to help the little criminal with his homework. Math assignments were contextualised with tax evasion, and his theatre practice was met with genuine applause and laughter— all knowing it would only expand Napoleon’s usefulness in a con. 

Times were good back then, growing up between gambling nights and cigar smoking fellows giving him advice on how to ask a girl out, or how to crack a safe. Napoleon still remembers the first time he had stolen dad’s wallet without him noticing. He had shown the treasure at dinner that night, smiling smugly while awaiting his dad’s approval. Napoleon can recall exactly the way his father had shone with pride— but also something more, something much like respect. When his father’s friends came around again, he’d told the story in loud words full of smiles, boasting about the tricks his little thief could do. 

He had decided that same night, only eight and full of wonder, that he’d be the best criminal history had ever seen. So that his father would sound that proud every day of his life. He’d lain awake, seeing his future open up before him. He imagined his father’s old and wrinkled smile as he gave him the keys to a house he’d bought himself with his winnings. He saw himself telling grand stories of his adventures, the same way his father did every day. He saw himself rich and able to share with the mentor his dad would always be. 

His father had taught him all that he knew, and Napoleon would pay him back for it. They’d be the best family of thieves, the best partners in crime. He would make his father proud. 

This conviction did not change. 

While his classmates gushed over university or trips abroad, Napoleon was practicing cypher breaking in the margins of his economics tests. It did not change after his friends abandoned him, the school rejected him, and he had nothing left but the circle of his father’s crimes. 

He remained sure when Tony suddenly disappeared, a few days after Napoleon’s 16th birthday. Steadfast and growling with determination, when he was thrown into juvie after escaping the orphanage one too many times. 

When finally adulthood finally came and opened up the prison’s fences, Napoleon knew what he wanted to do, who he was, and who he will ever be. The first step of accomplishing this was getting his dad back. 

Or killing the men who took him out. 

After years of worrying, of almost _knowing_ dad’s criminality had finally caught up to him and send his body down the river, it took Napoleon only barely a year to trace his way back to him; the lessons of his past proving their worth. 

Napoleon found him in a beautiful but modest house; white picket fence and tulips in the garden. He found his father had built a lovely _home _in his absence, with a bumbling one year old stampeding through the perfectly cut lawn and a beautiful blond wife showing that another child was on its way. 

Napoleon stayed in the shadows, watching his father smile more than he ever had with him. He saw him singing lullabies to his child, fixing the fence, and keeping the garden nice and neat, as his wife walked past and kissed him on his cheek. Napoleon watched through his binoculars for days, torturing himself with a scene he would never be welcomed in to. He saw his father love a woman he’d never seen before, love his child like he never had another. 

He saw his father— be normal. 

Napoleon sat there, squatted on a pile of wet leaves, and watched his father be a dad. 

When Napoleon found out Tony had gotten a job at a security firm a week before he’d left Napoleon behind, Napoleon had laughed until he couldn’t anymore, and then cried himself to sleep. 

But Napoleon at nineteen had been as determined as he had been at eight. He refused to let all that potential he knew he had to just waste. His father might have given him up for a normal — better — life, but Napoleon was going to show him what his ‘little thief’ was capable of. 

Without him. 

———

Back on a chilly Italian street, a fallen criminal wanders lost through the man-made maze of the city. The tightly knit alleys and the scattered squares are just barely lit, forming a place he once called home. A text shakes him out of his stupor and his cold fingers tremble as he takes the device out of his pocket, opening the phone with a clumsy swipe. 

There is a message, hidden under three passwords and codes that he only just remembers , but when the screen finally turns green, the meaning is clear. 

A number with six zeros, an amount enough to buy away his pain. 

_he hopes he hopes he hopes_

Underneath the transfer, stand four small words, but they reverberate through the air like thunder. 

_The debt is paid. _

A fallen criminal, lost at sea, shakes his head and smiles. He walks away from the bleeding past, breathing deep, and decides. 

A plane ticket, an alias never used before. The new-born name smooth on his tongue. 

The fallen criminal closes his eyes to the engine’s roar, and finally— _finally — _soars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B a c k s t o r y 
> 
> We are introduced to Anthony 'Tony' Dewitt. As you can detect, he has some importance to this story ;P Hope you liked this insight! I've been hyped to post this chapter for a while now, the scene with the barkeep is probably a year old or something. Pls yell at me all you want about all the angst! 
> 
> I hope that my life becomes a little less chaotic soon, but the fact that I can post these chapters without actually writing them really is a boon at this time. But keep reminding me that I still have to write the last chapters, otherwise I'll be screwed ;p


	4. The Great

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly catching up on comments and catching up on general life things. I've only got a week left until uni starts, Ahhhhhhhh. I hope y'all like this one <3

“The windows give the living room constant natural light and provide an amazing view over the city, and with our inclusive furniture deal you can live in luxury from the second you’ve signed the papers…”

The realtor drones on and on. Napoleon lets the high-pitched fake enthusiasm melt into the background and takes the space in for himself.

It is almost too much. The marble flooring of the kitchens; and the mosaic of different shades of wooden planks that decorate the rest of the rooms; the uncomfortable yet royal looking leather chairs; the 64 inch hd screens in the middle of it all. 

It seems like the designer couldn’t decide between a modern minimalistic approach and making it look as expensive as possible, so an eclectic golden extravaganza became the result. The few walls without windows are covered in rows of glass shelves alternating with golden-rimmed mirrors. Napoleon can see himself from three angles and smiles wide, shark-like and sharp. 

The realtor stutters in his monologue upon seeing the smile, but continues shakily, almost bravely— more so desperately. Napoleon knows as well as he does that he needs this property sold pronto. With the current state of the world, no one sane would invest in a superfluous monstrosity such as this. 

Napoleon has never claimed to be a sane man. 

Everything about the penthouse screams extravagance and it’s exactly what he imagined to end up in, fresh out of juvie and ambition blooming. It’s the exact home he’d imagined his dad would have desired more than anything. And now it will be Napoleon’s. He could haggle the price down, but he has enough money to not bother. Napoleon smiles wider, relishing the trembling swallow his realtor makes, and says, “Stop talking. I’ll take it.”

The realtor’s surprise is almost painful to watch, but he catches himself, reeling his expression into a confident smile. “You’re as smart as I’d hoped, Mister…?” 

Napoleon reaches over to shake his hand. “Blight, Alexander Blight.” 

By the time all paperwork is finished and the realtor has made himself scarce, Napoleon locates the fully stocked alcohol cabinet. He pours a glass of whiskey and reclines in his dark brown Eames chair, crossing his legs and looking out over his city. He watches the sky turn from yellow to orange to red, and tries very hard to think about nothing at all. 

The whiskey burning down his throat makes it easier. 

Darkness slowly seeps into the room as the sun disappears for the night, and with a lazy clap the lights scattered around the ceiling flicker on. Napoleon fixes himself another drink and looks around his new property with relish. 

The living room and kitchen are open-plan, separated by a long countertop-bar construction. Three bar stools are positioned around it, and a lonely bowl of fruit decorates the end. The living room consists out of three long sofas, cream coloured and claw-footed. The southern wall has more windows, and one bookcase that stretches to the ceiling. 

Napoleon moves closer, trailing his fingers along the backs of the luxurious collection he didn’t have to buy for himself. He recognises most — from Plato to Mary Shelley — but a select few are unbeknownst to him. He’ll finally have the time to read real books again. Napoleon stops when he reaches the last book in line. He freezes as his new perspective grants him the sight of something hidden behind one of the couches. 

A small record player, standing inconspicuously between a potted plant and statue of a copper rooster. Napoleon shakes himself out of his frozen state and throws back the remainder of his drink in one single gulp. 

The record player has to go. 

———

Something is wrong. 

A sickly tension between his shoulder blades, an invisible knife between his ribs, a fog in his mind. Napoleon finds himself between his satin sheets, in his new bed, in his new life, hating every piece of it. Loathing all that he is and should be again. 

The sensation shakes within him and keeps him stuck in the limbo between consciousness and sleep. There are thoughts, dark and flickering, in the back of his mind. The desperate scratching of pen on paper counterpoint to the trusting sounds of sleep. All of it feels real in the oppressive silence in the room. 

Why is it always the fucking letter, that his mind insists on torturing him with. 

Napoleon stretches his arms out, taking up space that isn’t supposed to be there. The mattress is too big, too empty, and the exhaustion only barely allows him to deny why. He doesn’t think about it. He can’t ever think about it. 

Napoleon stares at the ceiling, trying to mirror its nothingness, the pristine blank slate his mind should be. He closes his eyes, and doesn’t think about anything at all. 

Eventually sleep takes him, but it turns out to be a curse instead of a relief. 

Napoleon follows the path to unconsciousness cautiously, but he is powerless when his dreams take up the shape he’s been trying to escape. 

The phantom smiles at first; murmurs Russian in Napoleon’s ear and Napoleon pretends to not understand. His voice is soft and sweet. Napoleon knows every note of it. And he knows it’s wrong. He should be hated, he should be hurt— not this, god, no. _Please,_ not this. 

The dream listens and twists around his dark wishes. The soft voice turning angry and cold. The fingers caressing his collar bone tighten around his throat. The whispers continue, now vicious. Now right. 

Something sharp is pushed through Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon gasps. He feels the blood seep through his dress shirt. Illya pulls back, enough for Napoleon to see the red streaks on his jacket, the disgust on his lips form words Napoleon isn’t supposed to know. 

But Napoleon does, he understands, and he does not fight when Illya pushes the knife deeper. He does not scream when everything starts to crumble around them, save for the sharp pain in his chest and Illya’s roaring voice. 

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. _

———

Napoleon is no stranger to running. 

Napoleon is no stranger to escaping the confines of his mind. He is good at it. He has to be. There are too many ways to get lost when you have nowhere to run to. This business has teeth and the jobs bring with them growling memories that bite their way through endless nights. If you can’t lose yourself, the repercussions, _the pain_, will chase you into the woods like wolves on the hunt. 

But he can’t run fast enough. He’s failing.

Napoleon realises this while drinking his dreams away in the morning. The sun has just barely risen and his skin still feels the echoes of someone loving him. The alcohol tastes acidic in his mouth and it _isn’t helping._

Napoleon throws his glass against the floor. The glass scatters, sharp crystals sparkle in sunlight.

It didn’t help. He doesn’t care. 

The whiskey bottle follows soon, coating everything in a sticky golden hue. He doesn’t clean it, lets the destruction taunt him while he makes breakfast. There is barely any food in the fridge. He just lost one of the two glasses he bought for himself. The cupboards are empty except for what the realtor had left behind and for some reason that realisation triggers an urge to burn the whole place down. 

All encompassing anger runs through him like wildfire. He stares at the pieces on the ground. They stare back at him. 

Napoleon is barefoot. He feels the sting of small cuts in the heels of his feet. The gold mixes with red, the marble tainted with rust. The room suddenly doesn’t look so perfect anymore. 

That isn’t supposed to be a relief. 

————

There are no trees in his view of the city, only a forest of tall concrete structures: silver, cold and impersonal. Napoleon wonders if he chose it for that reason. 

At night, snow and smiles haunt him. At night there is a howling wind and heat of someone too close and too far at the same time. Napoleon wants to laugh at himself. He is supposed to be better at this. 

It’s been three days. The glass is still there, broken. His feet are still bleeding. 

He doesn’t leave his house. Step by step his world gets smaller. From the living room, to only the kitchen, to only his bed. He sleeps more than lives. His stomach rumbles constantly, so much that he barely feels it anymore. The ceiling remains blank, and Napoleon stares at it, waiting until it judges him too. 

It takes a dream for the spell to break. But it’s not Illya that haunts him. 

It’s his father. 

He is small again. Napoleon’s fallen onto the floor of his childhood home, the wooden planks scraping his knees. He’s in the basement and that means he did something wrong. He tries to stand up, but something is keeping him there. He blinks in the dark, tries to find the source of the pressure on his chest. 

“Little boy, little thief,” a voice above him says. And in the way only dreams can, the world shifts into light and shadow. He sees his father’s face now, brightly angry but still amused. 

Tony cackles. His grin is too wide, showing his teeth. He takes his hand off Napoleon’s chest and steps back, shaking his head while he laughs harder.

“You thought that you were capable, you thought you could do more, _better_, than your old man could. You thought you were invincible, and look at you now.” 

Tony grabs something off the floor and throws it towards him. Napoleon only just gets his hands before his face when the glass shards hit his palm. 

“A thief broken by his mark. A con man unable to keep up the lie. A criminal betraying _himself_! A confession, I can’t believe it. You’ve always been to emotional, too full of yourself. You’ve always disappointed me.” Tony steps close again, holding a large shard tightly into his fist. Napoleon watches the blood trickle down his arm with horrid fascination. “No wonder I left you behind. You were _useless_.” 

Napoleon flinches and turns his head away. He doesn’t move as his father pushes the sharp edge against his cheek.

“You are pathetic. You are ruined. You are _heartbroken,” _Tony spits the word with disgust. 

“Your greatest failure is not falling in love, my boy. Your greatest failure was not cutting your heart out before it could take over your head. You let it. You’re still broken. You know better. I fucking taught you better.” 

The shard pushes harder and Napoleon wakes gasping, just when it pushes through his skin. 

He grasps at his jaw, tasting iron and heat, and realises he bit his tongue while he was asleep. He falls back into bed, heart thundering in his chest, and the vision of his father repeats over and over again, until he falls back into unconsciousness. 

The next day, Napoleon drags himself out of bed and cuts his heart out of his chest— like he is supposed to. Like his father taught him too. He showers for the first time in two weeks, drinks coffee in the morning light, and puts on a suit as if it’s armour, like it’s going to protect him from what’s to come. 

The glass still shimmers on the marble floor. Napoleon doesn’t feel anything. He takes a broom out of a closet and sets himself to work. He cleans what needs to be cleaned, forces what needs to be forced. The fridge fills with food and the cupboards start to look like someone is using them. Napoleon works until the penthouse feels almost real, feels as his as he can make it. He has fit into this space someday.

It takes the better part of a week, but in the end Napoleon feels something close to pride when he regards the rooms. His suits are in the closet instead of in his bag, there is a toothbrush in the bathroom, and the drinks cabinet is stocked with his favourites. The only evidence of his weakness are the cuts slowly healing between his toes.

He walks around, ignores the pain, and tries to push that pride to the forefront of his mind, tries to blow it up into something liveable. But in the end he still feels wrong in his skin, a tremble catching him from the moment he stopped moving. There is a pressure inside of him, something frantic and searching for what he will never have

Normally, in moments like this, Napoleon would shower, meticulously pick an outfit for the night, and dabs himself with cologne. He would drive into the city, ignore the more prestigious of lounges to walk into a club instead. He would gaze over the grinding population and shoot smiles at a target until he catches an eager body to lose himself with.

But Napoleon knows with sick certainty that he can’t do that now. As much as he wishes otherwise, he cannot return to what he once was, not just yet. He cannot be himself. But he cannot seem to be something else either. 

Napoleon is at a loss for what to do. 

A part of him suddenly fiercely regrets leaving his crew — _as if he had a choice. As if he hadn’t ruined that option by writing that fucking letter. By falling in love._ When Victoria still had him, he at least hadn’t needed to think for himself. He had orders to follow and a freedom to aspire too. Now that he has it, he feels like he is drowning. 

Napoleon imagines it, calling Victoria half drunk and needy, begging her to take him back, just so he never needs to think again. He imagines her sick delight, her nails dragging down his skin. He sees the way her lips would twist in anger, in betrayal. _Traitor traitor traitor traitor. _

The trembling worsens and Napoleon sits down, sick to his stomach. He takes a flask out of his pocket and drains the vodka until Victoria’s delighted laughter disappears from his mind. 

He sits there, with one hand turning white on his knee, for what feels like hours. Where is the man he was? Where is the man that had the confidence — idiocy — to sneak into a Russian Jaeger program and come out not only alive, but with a database of stolen documents each worth hundreds of thousands?

Napoleon finds the answer at the bottom of a whiskey glass the next day. He pushes the thought away and doesn’t break the glass this time. 

He has lost himself. He needs to get back to how he became this — this creature made of smiles and scheming, a sham in a suit. Lucien Salomon, Napoleon Solo. 

Alexander Blight. 

Failure isn’t an option. 

What he needs is a job.

Napoleon still has contacts. He still exists— Victoria hasn’t blacklisted him yet. The world hasn’t changed despite it feeling like it has, irrevocably so. He calls around until someone takes the bait. 

Not two days later he’s in the air, the clouds zipping past him as he silently waits for his new life — his old life, his only life — to begin again. 

Nothing has changed. Napoleon knows how to run until he believes himself. 

—

Alexander opens up the file on his lap and smiles at the flight attendant walking by. The intel is good, the pay is better, and Alexander knows he’ll be done in no time. The flight attendant sports a slight blush, and Alexander puts his file away. No harm in having some fun, in the meantime. 

No harm at all. 

———

Orwell flinches at Alexander’s smile, his wrinkled hands reaching into his pocket to draw out a satin napkin and dab his wart-ridden forehead. He walks towards the table, seeming to force himself to remain steady and stiff, as a last hurrah of his dignity, but he ruins the effect by almost tripping over his own feet when Alexander sharpens his smile. 

_He’s truly a sight to be seen_, Alexander thinks, pushing out the chair next to him and motions towards it. “Sit, Mister Orwell, please sit, the journey must have tired you.” Alexander picks his utensils back up and continues to carve into his steak — medium rare with truly the most exquisite of jus. “I took the liberty of ordering something already, my apologies. The waiting hungered me; I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.” 

Orwell swallows heavily. It takes another second of Alexander smiling serenely, until he finally sits down, almost disturbing the table with his shaking knees. Alexander can just see them dart up and down, dancing to the tune of a guilty, dirty old man. 

“But you did,” Alexander continues when Orwell does nothing but cower silently, “I’m hoping that means you deemed my proposal beneficial to us both?” He raises an eyebrow, prompting Orwell to nod once. His wire-thin grey hair looks like it’s one frantic head shake away from falling out, and Alexander takes a sip of his white wine instead of chuckling at the image. 

Orwell drops his eyes to where his hands are gripped around the edge of the table. His unkempt nails are bitten to the skin and he looks gaunt around the eyes. Alexander feels a familiar bloom of pride that his terror campaign had such terrific results. He decides to up the game and leans closer, just to make the man uncomfortable, and grabs a thick envelope from his bag besides Orwell’s chair. The stench of eau de toilette and sweat reaches Alexander’s nose and he backs away, holding the envelope like a winning hand. 

Orwell follows the movement and his eyes widen when he sees his wife’s address written on the front. There is a sudden flash in his features, something lit aflame besides the desperate fear oozing out of him. A hint of hatred brewing underneath the surface. _Yes,_ Alexander thinks eagerly, like his thoughts can blow the flame into a fire. _Fight it, old fool, show me what you’ve got. Make this a challenge. _

But Orwell deflates as fast as it came, leaving behind a shell of defeat and trembling. Alexander suppresses a frown, disappointment churning in his stomach, and moves onto the reveal instead. He lets the pictures spill over the table, a humble collection of glossy images taken outside an open window, high up somewhere. The camera zoomed in on a bedroom with golden sheets and rose petals, white sheer curtains blowing in the wind enough to reveal the couple in ecstasy. Or at least, one of them is. Alexander would say the pictures are actually quite good, even tasteful, the effect only ruined by the gruesome subject himself. The same man now drawing in hurried breaths, seeming to sweat through his crumpled suit. 

“You can’t—“ Orwell bites out, his eyes flicking around the restaurant frantically, attempting to push the pictures back in the envelope. 

“I wonder what your wife and children would think,” Alexander muses, glancing to the ceiling as if deep in thought, “when they learn their beloved husband and father responded to the end of the world by jumping into a mistress’ bed instead of spending time with his family.” 

Once pictures are safely hidden, Orwell tightens his hands around the envelope, his mouth agape like he’s stuck on a sentence that never comes. 

Alexander gives him a slow once over, eyes lingering on the diamond cufflinks and the embroidered waistcoat that’s truly wasted on his figure. “It will be hard, maintaining the luxurious lifestyle of your last years when you’ve lost access to your wife’s inheritance. No claim in case of divorce, isn’t that what the prenup said?” 

Orwell’s shoulders drop even lower than they had been, and Alexander knows he’s got him on a leash. He’s almost horrified when he hears Orwell cutting off a sob, proving to be even more pathetic than he thought possible. 

“What do you want?” Orwell asks pitifully, gaze to the ground. 

“You know what I want,” Alexander tells him. “Give me the keys, Henry.” 

Orwell shudders at the use of his first name, making Alexander grin. He digs into his pants’ pocket and throws a small bundle of keys on the table. Alexander picks them up and mentally compares them to the lock of the apartment. “The code to the safe as well.” 

It isn’t truly necessary, but it saves him the effort of dragging his tools up the stairs and back again, and Orwell looks like he’s ready to spill any secret he asks anyway. 

“09091964,” Orwell murmurs. 

Alexander laughs. “Her birthday? Oh, Henry.” He stands, shaking his head while clapping Orwell on the back. 

Orwell is too slow to avoid him, but he looks up to stare at Alexander, grabbing the envelope and pushing it forward. “Get rid of this,” he croaks, “I gave you what you wanted.” 

“Oh no, it’s a gift,” Alexander assures him. “It’s no trouble, I’ve got enough copies laying around.” He buttons his jacket and then brightens suddenly, as if he just got an idea. “You know what—“ He steps towards Orwell, slipping a business card into his breast pocket. “Here, my contact information. You never know, Henry. If you’re are in need of my kind of services, you know who to call. I found your secrets, after all, which means I must be good.” 

Alexander winks and pats Orwell’s chest. Orwell breathes heavily, hands turned to fists, and _there_— there it is, that little hint fire back again. Alexander smiles in the face of it and turns to leave, imagining Orwell’s rage rising like steam behind him, following his every step. 

The butler nods at him as he walks out, and he hears a waitress ask Orwell to pay the bill of the table. The door closes behind him with the ring of a bell and Alexander slips into the masses of Londoners milling through the streets. He’s halfway to the apartment when he texts his client an update, the keys securely in a hidden pocket of his jacket. 

_On my way to the bird’s nest. _

The reply is immediate. 

_You’re fast, Blight. Keep it up and I’ll be recommending you to a friend of mine, he’s in need of your skillset in Brussels. Sounds like your kind of job. _

Alexander texts back.

_I’ll keep it in mind. _

Alexander whistles as he climbs the stairs of a high-rise apartment complex, no one giving him a strange look. His outfit alone gives him enough reason to be here, thousand dollar shoes notwithstanding. And they’re used to not asking questions here; it’s just Alexander’s luck that Orwell decided to hide his prized jewels in the very same apartment he’d had his affairs, much like the other men who have a room in this building. 

Brussels. He’s never been but it sounds interesting, although Alexander isn’t sure if any job can top this one. It’s got everything he loves, petty drama, dirty douchebags being confronted with the pathetic farces of men they are, an easy blackmail and an elegant heist. He doesn’t even need to break in. 

His client is generous too, having not only sponsored every part of this adventure, but also promising a paycheck Alexander couldn’t believe the first time it was offered. But he supposes during his time away the world has become even more on edge than it had been when he left. Everyone is working on their lists, be it bucket-lists or to-do lists, every person on the planet has things they’ve been putting off until the Kaiju made it very clear that that wasn’t an option anymore. Criminals and rich bastards are the same way. 

Alexander walks into the apartment, ignoring the safe for a moment to look through the rest of the rooms for anything interesting. He finds some necklaces worth a few thousand together, but would increase exponentially in worth when used to buy the affection of the right woman in a con of a sort. He slips them into his pocket and takes two interesting ties after a moment of hesitation. He doesn’t take the watch, despite it being worth more than his previous treasures combined, and locks the drawer without thinking any further of it. 

His scenic route ends in the kitchen, were he takes the last bit of champagne gladly, holding the glass in one hand while unlocking the safe beside the fridge with the other. The jewels are truly beautiful, if not a bit dusty, and Alexander begins to understand his client’s obsession with them. The story had been almost enough to convince Alexander on the job before the money even got into it. Decades earlier, his client had been keen to buy the set of jewels; rare diamonds and rubies in grand sizes, intending to fashion jewellery for his fiancé out of them. But Orwell had snatched them up right before his nose during the auction, and refused to sell them, even when offered double the original price — which in turn was the consequence of a falling out between the two businessmen years before. Rich people and high school students have much in common, it turns out. 

Alexander puts the jewels carefully into a small portable safe, and downs his champagne. He locks the door behind him and throws the glass to shatter into an alley behind the apartments. The keys go into the Thames. 

Brussels, Alexander thinks again, after he’d dropped the treasure off on the predetermined point and is rewarding himself with a visit to the car dealer. He’d be sad to leave London; the British are strangely unchanging in the face of disaster. It’s almost easy to believe nothing is wrong when surrounded by people so intensely good at continuing like normal, even when they have a front row seat to the horrors of the sea. 

“Do you want a sports model or are you interested into something more off-road, survival style?” The man says, continuing before Alexander has a chance to answer. “If it’s the latter, I’m afraid I’ll have to inform you that there is quite the waiting list. Demand is higher than ever. Understandable, of course.” 

Or, when they panic, they’re at least practical about it, Alexander revises. 

“Ah, yes,” Alexander says, tracing his hand over the hood of a truly beautiful Mercedes. “I don’t intend to survive the apocalypse, so I don’t need the car for it.” 

The car dealer doesn’t seem to know if it is a joke, but chuckles uncomfortably nonetheless. “Then I’m happy to say that we have a great number of exquisite models available to you. You can ride away with them tonight even.” 

Alexander smiles and makes a split-second decision. “I need something that can drive long hours.” 

“Then you’re already standing beside the car you want, sir,” the car dealer says, and starts to tell him about the finer points of the Mercedes. Alexander is barely listening, already miles away on the road, eager— No, _desperate_, for the next job. 

———

If London was the pinnacle of stubborn calm, Brussels is the polar opposite. The city is in chaos, protests break into riots as the EU politicians clammer for a way to deal with the mass immigration coming inland. There is barely a place to stay, hotels filled up with a constant stream of diplomats, going to endless conferences and incessant speeches, as the people chant for action outside the parliaments’ walls. Alexander avoids the centre, avoids the turmoil and keeps to the city’s edge, but even the parks are covered in graffiti yelling about the end to come. There is no avoiding the tense air hanging over the citizens like one of the monsters they so fear. 

But it isn’t the conflicts, political or otherwise, that have Alexander strung out after barely a week. 

It’s how the city is filled with people still believing in the fight. The frustration is not coming from a place of angered acceptance, it’s born out of a desperation to save the world. Alexander sees it everywhere, in the politicians working to the bone with scientists for solutions, to the people themselves for yet another clever conman who claimed he found the cure. Russia is mentioned a lot in those spheres. Alexander feels paranoia rising on his back as he practices selective deafness as he makes his rounds. Even the cocktail parties of his heists talk about the Jaeger Program like it’s the way they’re going to win this war. 

“Moscow is fighting,” they say between black olives and salmon toast. “Moscow has the best people, the best jaegers. Even America pales in comparison. If we all had that technology, the world would be saved.” 

Alexander almost laughs at that, knowing that these people would skin him alive if they knew about the secrets he had stolen. They would cut him into pieces just to get their hands on those precious documents. As if humanity can solve this. Before the monstrosities pranced around, they couldn’t even get their heads together for climate change. Solar power and windmills weren’t a secret resource, but people still chose profit over life. 

He knows too, keeping a side-eye on the developments on the other side of the ocean as to avoid walking into the CIA’s traps, that America has not truly realised in how much danger the world is, thinking a well placed nuke will solve everything as neatly for them like WW2. Never mind that no one actually knows where the creatures are coming from. There is no home-base to assault. 

Alexander knows that America only has interest in the documents because they are afraid of old rivals. A powerful minority believes that Russia is using the Kaiju as cover to prepare for an all out war. Alexander halfway believed it himself before he got into the program and saw it for what it truly was— an idealistic but brave last attempt to fight for human survival. 

America’s Jaeger Program is decidedly not; he’d read over Muse’s shoulder as she hacked into American Jaeger Institution. They had learned that American jaeger pilots are equally proficient in fighting colossal monsters, as gigantic robots of similar sizes. The message was clear: America is preparing for a jaeger war, and if the Kaiju don’t end up destroying civilisation, that surely will. The world doesn’t know what they’re in for. They’re forgetting that the Kaiju weren’t the first monsters on this planet; people were. 

For all that the politicians in Brussels still believe in the UN’s power to get international cooperation to save the world, Alexander knows better. After a few weeks of checking the boxes of his new client’s apocalypse to-do list, Alexander gets tired of mentally scoffing at everyone for their steadfast hope. He’s slowly going insane among the sea of idealists, reminding him too much of others who are giving their lives for the cause. He flees the moment an opportunity presents itself. 

He doesn’t listen to music as he drives over the border with France, focussing instead on the next job— the next moment of satisfaction, his next success. He arrives late at night in Nice, parking the Mercedes in a dark parking garage underneath a luxurious hotel, and flirts with the receptionist until she joins him to his rooms, neatly circumventing the problem of an empty bed : he’s too tired to notice that he’s alone when she leaves later that night. 

The following morning Alexander meets the client who wants him to infiltrate a business meeting and take notes of the project plans. It’s one of the most boring jobs Alexander has ever ran, but it gives him the opportunity to spot his next mark himself, leading to a small series of cons that send him all throughout France and make him impressively richer and more renowned. He ignores the monthly payoff of his rent, ignores the abandoned penthouse in America, and focuses on the small scale art theft that’s on the agenda.

A shore-side gallery is planning to move their stock to a bunker inland, giving Alexander the opportunity to weasel his way into the process and become the temporary project manager of the move while their usual manager won a vacation in Thailand with his wife. A freak stroke of luck; winning a lottery he didn’t even know he’d bought tickets for. 

Alexander does a great job, if he says so himself. He makes sure that the paintings, most of them horrid Post Modernist pieces, arrive intact and well into the underground storage facility. No one seems wise to the fact that a few original Manet drawings have been replaced with forgeries, along the way. 

The success reinvigorates him, and Alexander figures that two months is enough for Victoria to alleviate her eyes on him. He situates himself in a vacation loft just beside the Italian border, and calls Jemaine. 

“Hello?” Jemaine’s voice comes with an air of exhaustion. Alexander remembers the long nights he’d pull regularly without breaking a sweat, and carefully does not wonder what kind of job the team is working on to push Jemaine to a breaking point.

“Old friend calling,” Alexander says, and makes his grin audible. “Miss me yet?” 

“Lucien,” Jemaine says, his voice hushed. “You can’t call me. I’m not supposed to work with you— Victoria—“

He falls silent, and Alexander hears him moving to another room. 

“I’m not calling for work, sweetheart,” Alexander leers. “I’m calling for dinner.” 

There is a pause, and then Jemaine says, “Dinner?”

The suspicion is evident in his tone, but Alexander hears an undercurrent of delight. He pushes a pang of guilt away. “I’m in the area, just over the French border.” 

“Why do you want dinner now?” Jemaine asks. “You haven’t even called Muse, and you know she’d have a way to make the call secure. What’s this about?” 

He has a point, which Alexander doesn’t want to acknowledge. But this line is anything but safe from Victoria’s listening ear, so Alexander forces himself to follow the script. He hums, lets his voice drop low, and says, “I’m calling because I want you, Jemaine. I _need _you.” 

Any hope that Jemaine is able to read between the lines is lost when Alexander hears a hitch in Jemaine’s breath. Alexander closes his eyes and suppresses a sigh. He hears Jemaine chuckle, and can only imagine the small smug smile he so rarely used. 

“Well, that shouldn’t be an issue, Mister Salomon,” Jemaine says, low and soft. “Victoria doesn’t want us to work together, but she never said anything about… _dinner._” 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Alexander says. “Does Sunday work for you? I’d pay the train ticket of course.” 

“It does,” Jemaine says, in the deep voice that got Alexander into this mess in the first place. “Dress appropriately, I like you buttoned up.” 

Alexander swallows to the rush of memory the words call to him— of Jemaine’s hands on his suit, deftly undressing him after a long work day; of his strong arms throwing him against the mattress, caging him in. 

_— of soft Russian whispered in his ear, a gentle hand covering his mouth so the recruits passing through the hallway won’t hear him begging for more. —_

Alexander clears his throat and pushes a laugh into the air, fluttering like smoke through his lungs. “I’m sure I can find something to your liking.”

“See that you do,” Jemaine orders calmly, as a farewell. 

Alexander puts the phone down and away, and carefully doesn’t look at the images still lingering in the back of his mind. The first item on the agenda of their ‘dinner’ will be dissuading Jemaine from the notion that their past arrangement is still holding up. 

It’s one of those secrets Victoria kept in her cards, subtly gloating about that she’d collected yet another piece of him. “I understand,” she’d said once, lips pulled in that serene smile, “I’ve persuaded him for a night as well, and he was quite the looker. I commend your taste.” 

He had pretended not to know what she was talking about, playing coy, and had saved the memory for a later date, intending to use her confidence in knowing him as her downfall. He’s sure she’ll be listening to that recording one of these days, and hopefully she’ll be too busy congratulate herself for being right, than to think about the implications of ‘Solo’ and Jemaine spending a night together. 

But Alexander hadn’t expected that Jemaine would take the offer at face value, certainly not because they used to end up in bed together— a happenstance occurrence more than anything else. Alexander has not once initiated their exploits, much less called for dinner. 

Alexander grabs the tumbler of whiskey and pours a drink for himself, watching the honey-brown liquid trickle down while carefully ignoring the implications of Jemaine’s eager acceptance. Instead he spends the rest of the night preparing the documents for research. He needs to know what he wants to know before he lets Jemaine loose; going through the whole database could take weeks, and he’s sure Jemaine won’t tolerate him for that long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought you'd be done with name changes now that's Napoleon pov, right. Ha! Napoleon is too good at self-denial for that. You have to be your character, ect ect ect. Let's see how long he can hold on to this one.


	5. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemaine comes by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *one day day before uni starts* me: when do we have a break.

When Jemaine arrives around 5 pm, Alexander has to admit that Jemaine looks stunning. He’s left his sweaters behind for a light brown suit with a soft checker pattern, a moss green waistcoat and a shirt so white it nearly glows, contrasting beautifully with his dark brown skin. He smiles at Alexander with a soft sigh and closes his umbrella, the rain pouring behind him. 

“Come in, come in,” Alexander says, taking Jemaine’s umbrella and helping him out of his jacket. 

“Always the gentleman,” Jemaine chuckles in a low murmur. His hand brushes Alexander’s arm and Alexander almost drops his smile. 

“I refute that,” Alexander says, moving to hang Jemaine’s jacket and feeling very grateful for the space between them. “The evidence being this: I asked you here under false pretences. I need a favour. I’ve gotten my hands on a database and I need to know what all of it means.” Alexander turns around and adds in his most charming voice, “And you’re the best researcher I know.” 

Jemaine’s smile fades in an instant. His face turns blank, hardened, and Alexander knows that’s as angry Jemaine lets himself be. 

Alexander steps out of the hallway, trying to escape that expression, convincing himself that he just didn’t see disappointment in Jemaine’s eyes before the frustration showed itself. “But don’t worry, I didn’t lie about the dinner itself. I prepared a full meal. Duck— your favourite, if I remember correctly?” 

Alexander takes the lid of the pot as if he needs to check on it. He doesn’t look up as he hears Jemaine’s footsteps follow him slowly into the kitchen dining room. 

“It is…” Jemaine replies belatedly, and then he takes a sharp breath. “Lucien—“

Alexander interrupts him, “Look, I’m sorry for using our previous… arrangement to draw you here, but you know as well as anyone that Victoria is going to breathe down my neck for the rest of eternity.” He smiles then, being able to make it more genuine than before. “And you truly are the best researcher I’ve worked with, Jemaine. The people I’ve had to suffer through these months were almost horrible enough that it would be worth it to join Vic’s clutches again only to get a researcher who is competent.” 

Jemaine looks at him with an intense gaze, but then he suddenly relents, looking away with an air of bashfulness. Alexander remembers with a sudden drop of his stomach why he’d held onto Jemaine for so long; for all his intelligence, he’s incredibly easy to manipulate. Alexander has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract from a sudden swirl of sickness at the thought. 

“I’m sure it isn’t that dire,” Jemaine says with a self-deprecating huff, but his lips twitch upward. “I can’t be the only person on the planet capable of looking through some files. What do you want me to do?” 

Alexander laughs and shakes head. “You’d be surprised. I have already prepared some things of interest, they’re on the laptop there— yes, that one. But first I thought some food might be in order.” 

Jemaine ignores him, taking the laptop and settles himself at the dinner table. Alexander smiles to himself, remembering the extensive collection of plates and bowls growing cold besides Jemaine’s elbow, forgotten in the name of research. He fills a plate nonetheless, and hovers over Jemaine’s shoulder as he flicks through the first files. 

It takes only a moment for Jemaine to drop his head and say, “This is the Russia cache, isn’t it?” 

“It might be,” Alexander says, taking a bite of his portion of duck— which, surprisingly, actually tastes incredible. “But plausible deniability is a godsend in our business.” 

Jemaine turns around with an expression of pure exasperation on his face and says, “_Lucien.”_

“The name is Alexander now,” Alexander says, and pushes Jemaine’s plate towards him with a smile. “Eat something, if you’re gonna be too busy being annoyed at me to work.” 

Jemaine closes his eyes and sighs very, very deeply. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be running far, far away from you right now? God, Victoria is going to kill me.” 

“I took precautions; she isn’t going to find out.” Alexander places his hand on Jemaine’s and squeezes. “And come on, aren’t you a little curious about what I’ve been doing all that time? About the reason why Victoria wanted me in Russia at all? Or better yet— what documents could be worth so much to her that it’s enough to purge my debt, and still pay me for the job?” 

Jemaine just shakes his head at him, but doesn’t move an inch. His eyes flicker to their joined hands and he sighs again. 

“You get good duck out of it,” Alexander barters and pushes Jemaine’s plate to him. “Come on, I know you’re curious.” 

“I loathe that you know that,” Jemaine says. He takes his hand back but only to take a passive aggressive stab at his duck, that fails the moment he puts it in his mouth and he lets out a sound of pleasure. “God, where did you get this?” 

“Made it myself,” Alexander says, not resisting the chance to sound smug, “Only the best for you, dove.”

Jemaine narrows his eyes at him but takes another bite. “Don’t think I am oblivious to what you are doing,” he grumbles, mouth half full— and that’s how Alexander really knows he thinks it’s delicious: anything Jemaine is capable of leaving his stringent manners for is a dish worthy of the title Ambrosia. 

“Are you saying no?” 

Jemaine sighs again, but moves back to the laptop. “Let us see what Victoria was so eager to get to.” 

“You’re a love,” Alexander says, and kisses him on the side of the head— partly out of relief, partly because he knows it will motivate Jemaine only further. Deep down he feels disgust at himself brewing. 

———

After a few hours they’re so deep into their research that Alexander loses the need to force anything. Their excitement is genuine and shared as they delve deeper and deeper into the database. The data cache Alexander had copied had held the back-up of not only the entire base itself, but also of the technology and research facility that had been only a mile away. Alexander remembers some classes being invited to the facility to test some of their newer products, and had felt intensely frustrated that his squad had fallen just of the running. 

Jemaine is working himself into a storm, pulling more and more expressive faces as he rambles about terms Alexander could never dream to understand, and he finds himself wishing Muse was here. 

Jemaine seems to be on the same track of thoughts; “Muse would have the expertise to truly understand this, and I believe she already knows a great portion. Victoria has taken her and Uncle to the workplace in Venice, so whatever it is they’re working on, she must be deep in the production. But that also means she’s too close to Victoria for us to safely ask.” 

Alexander hums in agreement, sipping on the wine he’d gotten them after they hit the fourth hour. Together they’ve already worked through two bottles and Jemaine getting flushed and gesticulating as he talks. 

“As far as I can see, besides the intel on the Russian Jaeger Program I gather most international entities would sell their soul for, the data she’d be most interested in is this.” 

Jemaine moves away from the screen with a flourish and shows Alexander a series of very technical looking blueprints of some sort of device. It reminds Alexander slightly of an engine, he voices this thought out loud. 

“You’re almost correct,” Jemaine says, nodding. “This is a Nuclear Processor; an engine of sorts that can power a Jaeger with nuclear energy.” 

Alexander frowns. “Doesn’t the USA already have something like that?”

“Yes, but this is far superior. This could cut the cost of a Jaeger by half, maybe even more. Just the way the energy is distributed is an improvement from the highest order.” Jemaine smiles with real excitement and Alexander can’t help but be infected by his enthusiasm. “If the Jaegers are the way the Kaiju can be defeated once and for all, this invention is what would make that possible. I’ve done some research on this in my down time, but it seems that the Kaiju are getting stronger, exponentially. The current production of Jaegers would never be able to keep up.” Jemaine points to the blueprints and taps the screen. “_This _could be the saviour of humanity.”

Alexander waves his hand away to take a closer look himself. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. If that was the case why wouldn’t the Russians share this? No, there must be something missing.”

Jemaine deflates a little, nodding with a considering look. “Maybe, but you might be overestimating the Russians’ willingness to cooperate. There are plans in the USA to build some sort of shore-side structure to keep the Kaiju at bay, the EU has their own projects brewing and I think that China has some secrets as well. Russia has a large amount of shoreline to protect and so far already 5 Kaiju have hit their shores. Compared to the USA’s one, they are in the thick of things. They might just want to protect themselves first, make sure there isn’t a sudden shortage in the resources needed to produce this. If you make this public, every country on the planet would be clambering for the parts, much more than would be available on such short notice.” 

“I can see that,” Alexander says reluctantly. He blames on the wine raises his hackles on the insinuation that the Jaeger programme in Russia is selfish at heart. He carefully doesn’t look at the extensive list of arguments against this insinuation that start to rattle off loudly in his mind, and focuses on Jemaine instead. “But we still don’t know why Victoria would want this, if she isn’t selling it. If she’d made a deal trading something of this calibre, I would have heard about it.” 

Jemaine presses his hands together and raises them to his lips, his eyes wide and alert in deep thought and Alexander watches with a fond smile, the scene far too familiar to deal with. 

After a few long moments and half a glass of wine, Jemaine lets out a sudden exhale of breath. Alexander raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

“What if she doesn’t want to sell it all? What if she got it for herself?” 

Alexander frowns, twirling his glass. “For what—“

“She wants a Jaeger,” Jemaine says, softly as if he doesn’t believe his own conclusion, but then again, stronger. “She wants a Jaeger.” 

Alexander blinks, letting the idea grow into his mind. He’d thought about it— joked about it. Victoria who inherited the throne to an Italian mafia organisation focused on arms trade and property fraud, and twisted it into the largest European organisation for anything and everything to do with Kaiju and the new technology the apocalypse had brought upon them. 

She’d transformed her family’s legacy to one of billions selling Kaiju corpses that were stranded on international shores, carefully packaged and kept. He’d always enjoyed the idea of Victoria in her own Jaeger, dragging a Kaiju kicking and screaming to one of her dismantling factories before it could even wreak havoc. She’d be saving thousands of people out of pure greed. But the amusing fantasy had always stopped with a laugh, remembering that no one would be capable of drifting with a mind like hers. No one would be cruel enough, monstrous enough, _inhumane_ enough to be able to share themselves fully with her. 

But if she’s able to build Jaegers without the resources a government has access too— if she’s able to produce Jaegers _commercially, _Alexander knows a lot of very rich bastards who’d throw down their lives’ savings to get one of their very own. Even those bastards would be able to find someone as horrific as them to drift with. 

Alexander can’t even imagine the destruction those idiots could impose on the world in the name of their selfish need for protection. He wonders what would happen with such a weaponised machine in the power of those who aren’t tested extensively on their moral responsibility, and promptly gets a headache. 

“Well,” Alexander says, raising his glass. “Here’s to hoping it’s not going to work. Maybe the Russians kept it secret because it’s still malfunctioning, because I don’t want to think about a world where Victoria is providing a giant robot army to the rich.” 

Jemaine huffs, dragging one hand over his face. “I don’t either. I need a drink.” 

“That, I can provide,” Alexander says. “Wine or something stronger?” 

“Bourbon, if you have it,” Jemaine says. He’s back to the laptop, clicking through aimlessly, seeming to have no real goal. 

Alexander closes the laptop when he comes back with the requested drink and says, “You’ve done more than enough, Jemaine. You’re well due a break.” 

Jemaine smiles up at him and takes the drink from his hand, fingers brushing. “I guess so.” He takes a sip while Alexander places the laptop to the side. “So, was I to your expectations, Mister… Alexander?” 

Alexander laughs. “Blight, Alexander Blight. And yes, you’ve exceeded any expectations I had, as per usual. I did truly miss working with you.” 

When he turns back Jemaine is suddenly much closer, and Alexander freezes into place. 

“Hmm,” Jemaine hums, and his breath is warm against Alexander’s lips. “I did too.” His hand twists around Alexander’s tie and before he can move, Jemaine pulls him forward and kisses him. 

There is a moment where Alexander’s reflexes take him and he— he kisses back. Memories war for purchase in his mind as the sensation of warm lips pressing over his mouth. With his eyes closed it’s so easy to remember. It’s so easy to pretend. 

A hand caresses his jaw, too tender, too much like— 

He’s pressed up against the table. Trapped. But he wants to be. It would be so easy, so easy to give into this. To have this feeling once more, just this time. He’s missed it. Oh god he’s missed it. 

But this isn’t. This isn’t him. 

Alexander takes the hand of his jaw, and pushes Jemaine away, _hard. _

Jemaine stumbles backwards, his flushed face now alarmed and says, “Lucien?” 

Alexander turns away, blocks out the surprise in Jemaine’s tone, and he knows he put this on himself, he knows Jemaine isn’t to blame for this, but the yearning still rips through his body and suddenly he’s angry— a rage he’s not known before makes his jaw shut tightly because how _dare_ he. How dare Jemaine force him remember, to grasp his heart and force it into the forefront of his mind. He was so close. He’d worked so hard to push it away, deep, far. He almost had control, and now, once more, his thoughts are filled with pain, filled with regret. _Illya, Illya, Illya. _

“What the _fuck _Jemaine,” Alexander growls. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “_What the fuck was that?_” 

There is no reply save for heavy breathing that could originate from them both. 

“_Jemaine,_” Alexander snaps. 

Jemaine is standing bowed over the table, his arms outstretched and his head down, “I apologize— I thought. You were— I apologize.”

“You thought _what?_” Alexander bellows and something forces himself to draw near. 

Something in him itches for a fight, for something bloody, for pain to distract him from _this. _It’s like he’s viewing himself from just above his body, but nothing in him wants to stop it. His emotions are like a loaded gun and there is a target nearby, saving him from pressing the gun against his own head. 

“We fucked a few times, but you’ve never once fucking kissed me. Not really. Not like that. What the fuck was that? What the fuck do you want from me?” 

Jemaine moves his head towards him. In the dim light of the room Alexander sees tears in his eyes. It almost jolts him out of his anger, suddenly sick with realising how much he’s hurting Jemaine, but another part of him recognises the emotion on Jemaine’s face. He knows that expression, he knows heartbreak written all over Jemaine’s features, and he’ll give anything— _anything_ — to make it go away. 

Jemaine takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You told me you wanted something real, that you yearned for it.”

Alexander flinches out of his thoughts, disorientated. The words sound too close to the truth but he wouldn’t have said them out loud. He barely allows himself to about them anymore anymore. “I didn’t—“

“Yes, you fucking did!” Jemaine’s eyes flare like a fire igniting. Alexander almost sways in relief. Anger he can deal with. Anger he deserves. 

Jemaine should insult him, scream at him, beat him, until he doesn’t know his own name. Not kiss him, caress him, touch him like he’s worth a damn. That’s what _he_ did. That’s what _he _never should have done. No one should treat him that way. 

“I heard you, when we went out with the team,” Jemaine snaps further. “You got drunk and collapsed in my fucking lap. You told me that you wanted something real with someone.” He sucks in a breath and continues in a rush, embarrassment now taking over his features. “And three months later you ask me for dinner, so yes, I know you wanted something real, and I thought I might be it. I guess was wrong.” 

“Yes, you were,” Alexander bites out under his breath and then adds sickeningly sweet, “You shouldn’t listen to anyone while they are drunk, Jemaine.”

Jemaine grimaces at the patronising tone and crosses his arms. “But I did listen to you, because I care. I know you meant it, because I see it. I see your pain, even though you try to hide it. I see that it’s worse than it was. I am not stupid, Lucien. Don’t treat me like I am.” 

The words are too— to earnest. Too caring. Too true. 

“It’s _Alexander,_” he snaps, desperate to take Jemaine’s tone and twist it into daggers again. He can’t say that name. He isn’t that man anymore, just like he isn’t Solo. 

“I know you as Lucien,” Jemaine growls. “We worked together for almost four years. You are Lucien.” 

“I’m not, Jemaine,” Alexander says, “Lucien is gone. Lucien was nothing. Did you really think I’d give you my real name? We’re all criminals. We all have something to run from. I’m not so stupid to think Jemaine is yours. Or do you really think Muse’s parents named her after her favourite band in 24 years?” 

Jemaine deflates a little, his eyes drawn to the ground as he huffs. “No, but I do know her name. Just like you know mine. I never thought to lie to you. I trusted you from the start.” 

Bile rises up at Alexander’s throat, and he laughs loud and bitter, “You shouldn’t have.” He shakes his head and god, why does this hurt so much. “Jemaine… have I ever hinted romantic interest in you? Have I ever even entertained the possibility that there was something more between us than a casual arrangement?”

Jemaine closes his eyes, and his fists tighten by his side. “No,” he says, and sounds like defeat. “But I planned to— to confess— to talk about—“ Jemaine drags a hand over his head. “I thought we could try to make something of what we had, something real like you wanted. While you were gone I realised that I l—“

_He can’t hear it. He never wants to hear that word again. _

Alexander cuts him off. “We had nothing. You were a nothing more than a good colleague and a good fuck. The rest is your imagination.” Jemaine’s eyes spring open with hurt and Alexander feels his pain echoing his own. “It was a fantasy, Jemaine. It always is.” 

Jemaine trembles, his breath hitches and he says, “You’re wrong.” The trembling becomes more intense and Jemaine slams his fist on the table. “You’re wrong!” 

Alexander laughs and raises his eyebrows. “Wrong?”

“We are friends— we were friends. Why are you erasing that?” Jemaine yells, gesturing sharply and continuing with passion. “I truly am sorry, alright, for presuming, but we were not nothing. I trusted you and you me, you relied on me, we—“ He pauses, stilling again, and repeats softly, “We were friends.”

His eyes are— He looks at him like— This can’t be happening again. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. _

And Alexander knows exactly what to say to make it stop hurting. To make Jemaine go away and never look at him like that again. He knows exactly how to hold himself, the precise ways his smile needs to tilt and body needs to move, for Jemaine to hate him for the rest of his life. 

He knows how to make people run, far, far away from him. He knows how to break someone’s heart like he broke his own.

So Alexander does exactly that. 

“Ah, there it is, your fatal mistake,” Alexander shakes his head, chuckling. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, using the word like a poisoned knife, “I don’t _do_ friends. We have never been friends. You’re just someone I knew would do whatever I needed, and would be so god damned pleased to please me, almost embarrassingly so. Be it research or a blowjob, you were all over it.” 

Alexander watches as Jemaine’s face draws taunt with hurt, and he pushes the wave of sickness away, using the pain in his chest to smile cruelly and add, “You will never know my name, Jemaine, because I’ll never see you like that. I’d never trust you the way you want me too. I will never love you the way you want me to. Because however you see me, it wasn’t real. I never am.”

“You—“ Jemaine shakes his head and he tries for a smile that feels so forced it reminds Alexander of broken glass. “No friends, you say?” Jemaine asks, his voice ice cold. “I wonder what Muse will think about that.”

Alexander feels something like bile come up his throat, but he deflects Jemaine’s jab with a smooth smile, not willing to show he hit a mark. “She’ll understand.”

“Yes,” Jemaine says, nodding. “I think she will.” He stands up straight, adjusting his cuffs and turning his face hard.“You are right. You aren’t real. Not as you are now.” He sighs, suddenly Jemaine again, with his gentle tones and calm exterior. He takes control in the way of silence, while Alexander always feels the need to be loud. 

“I was wrong to call you his name,” Jemaine continues. “You are not the man that built our team, who trained us and forged the partnership that pushed us through success and failures. You aren’t the man I knew. You aren’t our friend, indeed, because you are not Lucien. I see it now. Whatever happened in Russia has made you cruel, and I regret making myself vulnerable in front of you. What I don’t regret is caring about the man you were. I do not regret loving you, even if you didn’t feel the same, because the man I knew deserved that.” 

Alexander takes a step back, the words hitting him like stones against his chest. 

Jemaine puts his phone in his pocket, grabs the waistcoat of a chair and puts it on. “And I do not care if his name was Lucien or something else. I just know that he wasn’t_ this_.”

“I’ve always been this,” Alexander snaps, but he sounds like an animal cornered, even to himself. “I’ve always been cruel and selfish, _abhorrent_. You just didn’t see through my act until now. I didn’t want you to, I wanted to keep everyone pliant for my own ends, but I don’t need you anymore, so why bother?”

Alexander feels himself slipping, his stringent control now being taken over by the truth and he’s being too honest. He knows that he is exactly what he said he was. He is cruel. He is selfish. He’s the most abhorrent person he’s ever known and Jemaine should see that. Jemaine should know and realise that he should love someone worthy of it. Not him. Never him. 

Jemaine sighs. “It is a pity that you really believe that about yourself.” 

Alexander laughs loudly. A tear springs from his eye. “You’re naive for not seeing it. You made a mistake in putting your faith in me, Jemaine. See it as a lesson. Avoid my kind next time, you’ll be better for it.” 

Alexander tries to put himself back together, but his face falls into pieces. From laughter to exhaustion. From pain to panic. Jemaine doesn’t seem to notice as he walks into the hall to presumably grab his jacket and leave. 

Alexander thinks that’s it. He waits on the click of the door. The impending doom of finally being left alone. But the footsteps come back and Alexander opens his eyes to Jemaine leaning against the doorway, watching him. 

Jemaine huffs out a sad, bitter laugh when he notices Alexander’s gaze. 

“I’ve learned much from you, but that’s not the lesson I’m taking from this,” he says softly. “I’ll see this as a warning to not lose myself, like you’ve seemed to.” He wraps his scarf around his neck but holds onto the end, fraying it nervously. “I am sorry for surprising you with my regard for you, for springing it upon you instead of asking like I should have. I was afraid, I suppose, and I reacted instinctively instead of rationally. Rejection always hurts, but if you were the man I knew, you would not have done it this way.” 

He sighs and falls silent for a moment, but doesn’t walk away. Alexander doesn’t dare to breathe. 

“I’ll try to remember that, and not let my memory of you be corrupted by your actions now,” Jemaine eventually says, his too-tender smile visible once more. He turns towards the door and Alexander doesn’t know why he feels sick to his bones. Doesn’t know what emotion is fuelling it. 

“Don’t call me again,” Jemaine says. “I do not want to hear from you, and I don’t imagine the team will either, after I’ve told them about the person you’ve become.” He steps through the doorway, lingering for another second. “But Lucien, or whatever your name truly is, I do hope you’ll find yourself again, if only to be able to see what you’ve just destroyed.” 

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slam the door behind him. Just leaves Alexander with a soft click and a dreading realisation that he got exactly what he wanted: Jemaine hates him now. The team will too. And the only thing he feels is pain. 

Alexander grabs the nearest glass and slams it on the ground. Like that solves anything. 

He goes to bed with bleeding feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have to pick a favourite chapter from this work so far, this would be it. It solidified my characterisation for Jemaine in so many ways, and made me really view him as a character in this story, instead of 'just an oc'. It also helped me understand Napoleon, and how deeply his childhood has shaped him, controlling still the actions he takes to this day. 
> 
> After more than 2,5 years of writing consistently, I've never before written a story where the main character is objectively doing the wrong thing, and hurting others with it. Destroying his own life, hurting Jemaine viciously, being an all around asshole. But because we're in his mind, we can understand, and we can sympathize. Yet we also know that having issues does not give you the right to hurt other people. My fear to be seen as excusing this kind of behavior might have stopped me from trying it out before, but with this fic I really broke through that and it taught me a lot. 
> 
> Because we do the wrong things in life, often even. Sometimes without knowing, but other times consciously because we don't see another way out. We have an image of ourselves that encourages this kind of behavior, makes it feel useless to try to repress it because 'this is who we are'. It can be being an asshole to people, or just distant. It can be addiction, self-hatred, pessimism: any unhealthy coping mechanism you've tied to your identity and see as fact. 
> 
> This story is one about image: about the jail you build for yourself out of the expectations of family, or society. It's about how that jail can feel comforting, if the outside world seems to only bring you more pain. But, be careful. The iron bars you're building for yourself can encapsulate others without their consent, and you do not have the right to refuse them the key. 
> 
> Even it would mean freeing yourself too. 
> 
> Napoleon is not ready yet, Jemaine had to break himself out. But he will be, in time. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> PS. I might miss next week if Uni proves to be a bit too overwhelming for me. Hopefully I won't <3


	6. Golden Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive (?). Uni doesn't fuck around lmfao. Pretty big warning: this chapter includes a scene depicting child abuse, pretty fucking graphically. Tony is an asshole, we've established that. 
> 
> I gotta keep to a bi weekly schedule from now on, sadly. We're getting to a part of the story I have to edit more thoroughly and Uni doesn't even leave me enough time to answer comments, let alone edit a chapter. And like, I miss writing as a whole so I wanna leave some time for that too. Those last chapters need to be finished n stuff. 
> 
> If I don't reply to your comment as soon or as thoroughly I normally do, I am sorry. I'm trying to get back on top of everything. But please know that they mean so much to me and really pull me through this overwhelming time <3 I love yall so much.

It takes two days of pulsing bodies and achingly sweet cocktails for Alexander to realise that this isn’t a problem he can drown out. Jemaine’s voice haunts him through the nights; his lips tingle with the echoes of a kiss he’d give anything to forget, then followed by another he never wanted to remember. The days are a haze of yearning and guilt and they remind Alexander too much of the first week since he left. But despite wishing to lose himself, Jemaine’s actions made responding to smirked invitations unthinkable. Every touch is a gateway to the past and Alexander stands on the precipice, grasping desperately for something to keep him from falling. 

He flees to Paris and Alexander rationalises his decision to leave by imagining Jemaine, telling ratting him out to Victoria. You see: He’s only going away for safety, in case Jemaine intends to double cross him like he so desperately deserves. He isn’t running because Jemaine’s scent sticks to the studio apartment like poison, even after days. 

But the distance doesn’t matter. The quiet only seems to make Jemaine’s voice louder and Alexander is desperate enough to turn the radio on— for barely a second, when the soft chords of a beautiful song felt like bullets going through Alexander’s chest, and he slams the volume of before the first line of Italian hits his ears. Moments later, the haunting starts again. 

The conversation swirls in Alexander’s head, snake-like and never ending. Never ending; Ouroboros made out of pain and pity. It slithers through as his thoughts investigate every scale of the beast, going over every single word with a fine tooth comb and letting them pierce Alexander’s skin until he doesn’t feel the impact of them anymore. 

_It’s a pity that you believe that about yourself. _

Except for that one. The one sentence that never fails to tighten Alexander’s throat. The voice is distorted by repetition and Alexander’s own projections; sometimes it sounds saddened, like a sigh of empathy caressing the inside of his skull. But now it sounds sharp, flung against him with the full force of Jemaine’s blind belief that Alexander could be better. That there was any good, any _truth _to Lucien at all. 

Alexander tightens his hands around the steering wheel and shakes his head. His jaws lock as the same spiel is ran through his mind, the words he should have told Jemaine when he was still there but couldn’t. He’d tried. He’d told Jemaine that he was wrong. But it wasn’t enough, and Jemaine walked away believing that Alexander was to be pitied, that he didn’t know the truth about himself. 

But he does. There is nothing to _believe._ He _is_ selfish. He _is_ abhorrent. He _is_ atrocious and not to be trusted by anyone. He must be. It’s the only explanation for what he did. If he wasn’t he wouldn’t have left Russia. He wouldn’t have betrayed Illya. There is no other option. 

Vincenzo would have stayed. He isn’t Vincenzo. He never was. 

Solo, Salomon, Blight— he is an example of the worst of humanity, and whatever Jemaine saw in him was nothing but a ruse. 

Alexander takes a job that’s far beneath his caliber, the paycheck almost laughably low. But he knows, as he stakes out the mark and sees the way to manipulate him grow crystal clear in his mind, that he isn’t doing this for the money. He’s doing this because he’s proving Jemaine wrong. As if the ghostly pity in the back of his mind is the man’s true presence, watching him over his shoulder as he works. 

Because this is who Alexander is, this is what he does. He tricks, he lies, he betrays. It doesn’t matter what name he carries; this is all he is. He always has been. 

And he’s so incredibly — so painfully — good at it. He wasn’t made for anything else. 

This job will prove that. This job is how Russia was supposed to go. 

It doesn’t.

The mark is an expat. He’s only lived in France for about a year, and has made himself quite known in the local gay scene. His position in the company seems to be a mixture of nepotism and surprising competency for his age, but an expensive cocktail and a quip about lost country boys is enough to draw his naivety to the foreground. He leads Alexander back to his apartment with self-confidence and purpose, Alexander strains to follow suit. In the low light of the antique street lanterns the mark seems radiant. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a face that could be severe but is teased into a soft smile. He’s fit, broad shouldered, but has something unassuming about him, a sense that deep down he isn’t quite the fighting type. 

The mark laughs, grabbing Alexander’s hand to drag him up the stairs. Alexander smiles along, lets his hand brush the mark’s waist, and realises acutely that he wouldn’t be able to do this if it weren’t for the gentle Southern drawl coming from the mark’s lips. 

“C’mon mister, you’re getting me all impatient.” 

But it doesn’t stop the hike up the stairs from feeling like he’s walking on glass shards, barefoot. 

The mark closes the door behind them but there is no sound of a lock clicking into place. The studio is open plan and organised, and Alexander is immediately drawn to the desk; where files upon files are labelled neatly in even stacks. He forces himself into the analysis of the job at hand, claws desperately at the identity — Alexander Blight: conman, thief, charmer, abhorrent, selfish, cruel, _liar_ — but he feels it slipping out of his hands, with every inch the mark leans into his space. 

“Now,” the mark murmurs, his warm breath brushing Alexander’s neck. “Where do we begin?”

Napoleon tases him before their lips touch. 

———

France implodes like a bomb. Napoleon runs. The mark has pull, and he barely makes it over the border with his face splashed every screen in the country. He cuts his hair short, and it feels like letting go of something he wasn’t ready to lose. The Mercedes is sold in a shady alley and he uses the cash to pay a hacker to burn all his traces and make him into a ghost. He calls in the last favours he has and Alexander Blight is removed from existence, like he never existed in the first place. 

While eager to destroy every part of his life, Napoleon ends up leaving the Solo bank account be. A part of him too scared to destroy it, in case of emergencies. Instead he makes it hard to access, pretends it doesn’t exist. And after enough drinking, he almost actually does. He doesn’t deserve it anyway. He earned by betraying the last person he loved.

The last thing he buys is a gun at the Serbian border. 

It isn’t the first time he’d had to cut his losses, but never on this scale. Napoleon had thought he’d be reeling, drowning in the realisation that he’d have to do everything over again. But he’s powerless to the relief that fills his bones when he realises that he’ll never have to go back to that golden monstrosity again. Whatever he is, he isn’t that. He knows that now, even if it’s the only thing he knows. 

But for all that he forced himself into working, the universe conspires to give him no other choice once more. 

The last handful of hundreds he had left in is suitcase are stolen one night; his motel room window shatters and a gun is against his head. He’s too tired to do anything about it, and he lets the thieves get away. 

Napoleon gasps into his hand as he hears the footsteps slowly retreating. His trembling hand grabs the gun under his pillow— if he’d been just a bit faster, if he hadn’t been so hungover, he still would have been able to buy breakfast today. He feels a rush of frustration but it doesn’t take over, being kept at bay by the adrenaline still pounding through his body. He takes a feel deep breaths, gazing over the dreary room. His legs are getting wet by the rain through the window. It’s a pathetic sight; a poetic representation on how far Napoleon has sunk. But Napoleon doesn’t feel it as he falls back on his mattress, laughing. Only one twitch of a stranger’s finger, that was all that had been between him and death, and for the first time in months, Napoleon feels truly alive again. 

Napoleon drags his hand over his face, flinching happily at the bruise developing where the thug had hit him on the head. Those thieves might have stolen the last that he had, but they’ve also given him the greatest gift he could receive: a path for his life. 

He flees the motel without paying, steals a motorcycle and makes his way to the shadiest places he can find. He knows he’s a collection of pieces only kept together by movement, and he’s so terribly afraid of falling apart. This is a way forward. This is something to fucking do. Besides, he needs the cash. 

Napoleon trades his coping mechanisms like playing cards. He goes from the power of manipulation and strangers in the night, to adrenaline-highs and festering stab-wounds medicated with vodka. He discovers within the balancing act between life and death is the only place he feels truly real anymore. It doesn't matter who you are if all you know is how to survive. There is no time to think if any moment can be the last, and Napoleon’s mind is finally fucking quiet. He hunts that feeling to the bone, and dives head first into a gang-war. He steals for those who pay, shoots at those who want him dead. He calls himself No One and walks backwards into hell. 

Deep down he knows he can’t go on like this forever. Deep down he knows one of these days a bullet is going to hit its mark. But his courage is mixed with desperation and it becomes more intoxicating than alcohol ever was, and the thoughts that slip into his mind when he isn’t running are worse than the scars he’s beginning to collect. But he knows himself as he laughs death in the face. He knows himself as he escapes assault after assault; the criminal underbelly turning their attention to this new unpredictable and hungry thief. 

Napoleon wades through the dangers like a fish through a pond. He remembers his early years with a fondness they never had before; when he had learned to prove himself through fists instead of through clever words. He acts on his base instincts, running when his gut tells him to, stealing when the idea catches him. There is no plan, no scheme, no lies— only him in the dark, cracking a safe when no one is watching. He takes and leaves and betrays no one, because there is no one to betray. It’s so much safer that way. 

The memories of youth become a direct reflection of his daily grind. Those first few years without his father were exactly like this; knives strapped to thighs, guns under pillows and a fight always only moments away. Napoleon sleeps with one eye open and feels strangely at home. 

Memories of his father fill his dreams again, but Napoleon gladly suffers the screaming if it saves him from visions of love he never deserved. The days start to run into each other— he doesn’t have the need to drink, not when he knows inhibition could mean the loss of his life, yet it feels like he’s perpetually drunk anyway. Time blurs into shorts bursts of breath and pain, and Napoleon lives yet another day, then another, and another, and doesn’t wonder how long this will last. 

Except when he does. 

He imagines the slip that would make him fall in loose theories: will it be an angry client, a stray bullet, or the hood of the car after a long night’s chase? Will it be his mistake or the luck of another? His own fault or just the draw of the cards? Napoleon doesn’t know how it will end, but he amuses himself by thinking up stranger and stranger stories. 

He only realises that he’s looking for it, when he finds the exact way how. 

His father always wanted something. He’d have a list on the wall for all his friends to see. It was a collage worthy of an art-student in their finals, full with images cut out from magazines, pictures printed and even some sketched out with messy lines. Each picture had numbers beside them, a priority given and often changed. They’d called it his Wishlist, and they’d teased him about it, thinking it a fancy while Tony always had been very serious about the whole thing. Because one way or another, he’d gotten everything he’d ever put on that board. From historic jewels to the first edition of a book, given time he would have a heist ready and an item could be crossed off. 

All except one. The list had been a fluctuating art work ever since Napoleon was old enough to understand it, but one item had always remained stationary at the top of the list. It would turn out to be the only thing his dad had never been able to steal. 

Napoleon finds it by accident. 

Napoleon stares at the painting with a sense of dread and awe. The Golden Boy looks at him with a liveliness that feels ghostly. His round cheeks are dusted with red and his long raven hair brushes his shoulders only just. A magpie sits on a table besides him, a golden chain in his beak, and the Golden Boy has one of his grubby hands wrapped around it tightly, as if he’s prepared to pull it back the moment the magpie tries to steal it. 

Napoleon takes a step closer and notices there is a tear in the boy’s eye, something he’d never seen before in the pictures that hung on that board. There are other details too; a small chest almost hidden by the boy’s leg, the intricate lacing on his shirt and a small watch stuffed in his pocket. 

_Beep beep. _

Napoleon flinches away from the painting, adrenaline rushing until he realises it’s his own alarm. There are only two minutes left before the security system turns itself back on. He turns around, his mind already two steps into his escape plan, when he hesitates. He faces the painting again and imagines what his father would have given for this. He imagines finding his father again, just to show him what he wasn’t capable of. That would make Tony finally realise what he’d given up by choosing domesticity, instead of accepting what he truly was: a criminal, nothing more and nothing less. 

Napoleon makes a decision. There is not enough time to cover his tracks, but he’ll gladly die for doing the only thing his father never succeeded in doing. The glass is easily broken and alarms start to screech around him. Dogs howl and voices call out, but Napoleon is already gone. He runs, laughing under his breath, and steals a painting worth of millions of out of the office of a crime lord— the very same man who’d hired him to test his security. 

Oh yes, he’ll surely be found, not before he burns this painting into fucking pieces, until there is nothing left of his father’s dream. He’ll destroy it like the worthless piece of shit he was.

Whatever happens after that, Napoleon doesn’t care. 

———

Napoleon finds himself in a parking lot. Out of the window of a nearby apartment the wind carries the smooth voice of Amy Winehouse as she spills out her heart. Napoleon listens to the flickering of the fire besides him and allows the lyrics to seep into his thoughts, his lips mouthing along to words that he never forgot, even after all this time. It’s something to do as the paint slowly melts off the canvas, the fumes burning Napoleon’s nose. 

_I told you I was trouble. You know that I’m no good. _

As Napoleon watches the little boy burn, he realises that maybe this was what his father wanted him to be. Not a thief, not a partner in crime for the rest of their lives, but just an object, something interesting to show his friends. A thing that followed him, worshipped the ground he walked on, and never said no. 

Napoleon remembers saying no the first time. Of course, as a child, he’d tried, but he’d quickly learned that his father took his no as a target, his hands quick to land. Napoleon was twelve when he said no, _truly_ no, for the first time of his life. A no that did not change after his face became bloodied and a tooth fell out of his mouth. A no he never regretted. 

His father had stood in the cellar with a man Napoleon had loved since his mother died, tied and gagged by his side. Napoleon can’t remember his name anymore, but he remembers his hands as he put a bandaid on his knee, or the sweets he sneaked into the house whenever he came around. Napoleon knows he’d been the driver, someone Tony had worked with for years and had gotten them out of many situations without a scratch. He had been a simple man, quick lose the thread of a conversation around him but also quick to smile, gentle and patient with the young boy between all the guns and grime. 

The man had been like a father to him, Napoleon realises again, after having forced the memory away so many times. It all comes rushing back to him and for a moment Napoleon drowns:

The man had been like a father, but his true father is pointing a gun to his skull. 

“Tell him what you told me,” Tony bites out. His voice is like steel, too loud in the confined space of the basement. The man presses his lips together and shakes his head. Blood spills down his chin. Tony hits the man in the head with a crack, and then loosens the gag. “Tell him, this is going to be a lesson.” 

The man cries out. His head snaps back, shaking the chair he’s tied in. Tony grabs his hair and pulls his face towards Napoleon. 

The man’s eyes open wide with fear. But it devolves when he makes eye-contact, and Napoleon freezes to see the fondness in his eyes— despite everything. He clears his throat, and his voice is ruined, but he speaks so softly, so gently. All for Napoleon. “Little one, don’t be scared.” 

Napoleon tightens his hands around his school bag and feels the tears pour down his face. “Dad, please, don’t do this.” 

“Speak when I tell you to,” Tony barks at him. “And _you—_ tell him or loose a hand.” 

The man shudders a breath, still watching Napoleon, and the words spill over his split lips. “I am so sorry, little one. I betrayed you. I’m the snitch. I told the feds about— ‘bout the house. I thought—” The man shakes his head. His whole body hitches with a sob. “I thought they’d take you away to somewhere safe, little one. I thought they’d take you away from him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Did you hear that?” His father growls. He takes the gun away from the man’s head but Napoleon can’t feel any relief because he knows his father’s expression like the end of a belt, and this one is out for blood. “He betrayed us. He ruined _everything_.” 

Tony punches the man in the face, his family ring carving a mark in his jaw. “This is why we don’t trust people, Napoleon.” Tony explains, almost calmly, before hitting the man once more. “This is why people don’t stay. They betray us. Learn now, before everything is lost.” 

“Dad,” Napoleon sobs, “Papa, please. He didn’t mean to— he is our friend.” 

Tony’s eyes flare. “How many times must I tell you—“ this time the ring lands on Napoleon’s face — “_We don’t have friends._” He pulls back, pointing his finger at the man, the veins in his arms pulsing. “This is the reason why,” he spits out, seething. “There will always come a time where the people will trust will take everything they know about you and they will _ruin_ you with it.” 

The lines of anger in Tony’s face morph at once into earnest concern and he reaches out. Napoleon doesn’t fight as he draws him in, his large warm hand caressing the bruise he just placed. “I just want you to learn that, my son. For your own protection. I just want you to be safe. He tried to take you from me. He tried to put me in to jail. He almost ruined us, Napoleon. You know what happens who those who try to ruin us.” 

“No, no, no—” Napoleon chokes out, his voice wretched from deep inside his chest. “No, not him, please Papa, not him. He’ll learn. He’ll never do it again. Please.” 

Tony holds him close, petting his head and swaying him against his chest. “Shhh, shh,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. You’ll be free from this weakness soon. In a couple of weeks you won’t remember his name, I promise you.” 

His voice is so soft, so gentle, and Napoleon is too powerless to push him away. It lasts for an eternity. Until Tony steps back and presses the gun into Napoleon’s hand. 

“It is time you do it. You’re old enough by now, I’ve been going easy on you.” He sighs and gives Napoleon a rub over his head. “It’s turning you soft.” 

Napoleon freezes. He looks from the gun in his hand to the man on the chair and forgets how to breathe. His father moves his fingers for him until he’s got one on the trigger and starts to lead his arm to aim at the man. 

The man’s eyes start tearing up, matching the stream flowing over Napoleon’s cheeks. Then all at once the fear leaves his eyes, and he smiles gently. “It’s okay, little one. S’okay. I won’t blame you. This ain’t you. I love you, little one. You’ve always been my son.” 

Tony lets his arm go to slap the man in the face. “_Don’t you dare.” _He spits in the man’s face. “You weren’t anything to him. He is _mine_.” 

He faces Napoleon, puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a smile, vicious and loving all at once. “Now, son, it is time to pull the trigger.” 

Napoleon trembles, his knees almost buckling under him. 

“Napoleon_,” _Tony says, and it sounds almost encouraging, if it wasn’t for the way his fists start to tense. “Do as I tell you.” 

“No.”

“What?”

_“No.” _

Napoleon drops the gun. His father roars. He’s thrown to the floor and his ribs crack under the pressure of fists. The man dies anyway: a bullet through his skull as Tony forces him to watch. But he’d said no. He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t killed the man. 

Maybe that’s where it started. Maybe that’s when Tony realised that his son wasn’t a thing, and never would be. 

The problem is, Napoleon doesn’t know what he is either. He only remembers what he was supposed to be. He only knows what he can’t do anymore. 

But none of this is relevant: 

When Napoleon wakes up from his past with a piercing headache, he realises his own musings were not what had caused the deep dive back into the past. He opens his eyes to a cellar, erringly similar to his father’s but not quite. His wrists are chained above him and there is an empty syringe on the floor, just besides his leg. 

“I’d be careful with that.”

Napoleon can’t see the origin of the voice, it’s too dark to see, but he watches the corner large enough to hide a person. 

“You never know what’s in that shit.”

A young man steps out of the shadow, his head is bald and covered with tattoos of webs and insects, most of his teeth are either knocked out or replaced with gold ones. He’s got piercings through his nose and ears, and Napoleon sees a stud through his tongue when he licks his lips, large enough to be considered a choking hazard. 

“I assume that whatever you gave me has headaches as a side effect?” Napoleon mumbles, his lips swollen and tongue lax. “Or maybe it’s just you. My god, you’re a sight.” 

“Snarky,” the man snorts. “I like ‘em that way.” 

“Any particular reason why you’ve hung me here, or am I just window dressing?” 

The man chuckles.“I might keep you longer for the jokes, so if you want to stay around, keep ‘em coming. But no. There is some information I need from you.” 

He clicks on a light and Napoleon takes in the situation, looking for a way to escape. There is a plastic table in the corner, a chair that the man is now dragging to the centre, and the floor is covered in a layer of thick plastic. The walls are insulated with sound proofing. 

Napoleon’s stomach drops. 

“You like the set up?” The man asks casually and shrugs. “I haven’t really done this before, so I’ll take your advice if you have any.” 

Napoleon turns his head away. There is a small window to the left of the room. Not large enough to fit him. He doesn’t see a door anywhere, but maybe it’s behind the patches of sound proofing. He’d need to be awake and conscious when this guy goes to the bathroom to figure that out.

“No jokes now?” the man mocks. “I thought we were becoming such good friends.” 

He leans over and drags the plastic table between Napoleon and himself. Napoleon can see an array of tools on the table— and they are literal tools. Save for a few knives, nothing here reminds Napoleon of a true torturer’s set, and he’s seen a few. There is a drill, a hammer with a few nails, bolt cutters, even a small axe. Napoleon shutters his eyes closed, blood draining from his face. This guy doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s not playing the act of a new torturer as a bluff. 

Napoleon swallows. He’s going to die— die horribly. Not the quick death of a killer, but the long and agonising drag that can only be achieved by incompetence. Napoleon puts money on infection, but hopes for blood loss; that would at least make him pass out soon. 

“So,” the man says after a moment of thought, raking his hand over his collection and then picking something out. He smiles menacingly and starts to fucking wiggle a pair of scissors before Napoleon’s face. “My father wants to know… where is his painting?” 

Napoleon blinks at the scene before him, and then laughs when the words finally reach his mind. “It’s gone. I burned it.” 

The man rolls his eyes. “You’ll have to do better than that.” He scrapes the edge of the blade over Napoleon’s cheek. “Burning the fake was a good idea to throw us off, but you’d never destroy the real deal. We know you have it hidden somewhere. Maybe you’ve already dropped it off to your client.” He begins to smile, showing off a golden tooth. “It’s simple. Until you give me the location or the name, we’re going to have fun together.” 

“It’s burned,” Napoleon says. “I’m telling the truth.”

The man grins. The wrinkles of his forehead move the spider tattoo as if it’s alive. “I’d hoped you’d say that. I’ve really wanted to try this for a long time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yep, we're getting to the meat of the angst. Next chapter will be Heavy as Shit, as you might have theorized. I hoped you liked this insight into Napoleon's youth and the origins of a lot of his issues that are reflected back in DD. It's super challenging to make everything connect, because my characterisation of Napoleon ofc wasn't as solidified as Illya's, while I wrote DD. But I hope that any discrepancies don't sour DD for yall! 
> 
> Uni is a lot, but don't worry, I really love this study and most of the professors are considerate to my circumstances. It's just the workload that's fucking me over and the general chaos of how everything is organized. I think in a few months I'll have a hang of it more, and a better social system to kinda fall back on, but everyone is now just drowning alone and it's sad. I've not written since it started and not played dnd in Months, and it's like my personality is just being eaten by academics lmao. So yall are awesome for helping me to keep the writer part of me exist <3


	7. Spiderweb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for pretty graphic torture (you can skip those paragraphs) and angsty stuff tm

Napoleon doesn’t scream. He writhes, twitches, groans and curses— but he doesn’t scream. He holds himself strong, keeping conversation when he can when he discovers that his torturer loves nothing better than his own voice. 

“Call me Bug,” he’d said, when Napoleon had mumbled between the drill and the hammer that he hadn’t been properly introduced. 

Bug hadn’t asked any more questions, only talking when Napoleon badgers him to. He’d been too entranced by the way his skin scraped off slowly with a dull blade, or the shades of blue a finger can turn when cut off of oxygen. The twinkle in his eye reminds Napoleon entirely too much of Uncle, so he’d turn his head away when he could, staring at the window, as if safety is just out of reach. 

The sun just barely shines through the window when Napoleon is released from the overhanging chains that had held him aloft for the last— Napoleon doesn’t know how long. Hours, at least. The men moving him have rough hands that scrape the fresh wounds scattered over Napoleon’s ribs and legs. His arms ache and blinding pain shoots through his biceps from having them held in one position for too long. He’d had to remind Bug, spit through battered lips, that letting him hang for too long could pull his shoulders out of their sockets, and he’d pass out. 

“That wouldn’t be fun,” Bug had replied, and called in his men to bring him down. 

Napoleon slips in and out of consciousness for an undetermined amount of time; dreaming about legions of spiders, and mosquitoes whose wings sound like a drill. When he is finally able to keep himself awake for more than a few minutes at the time, his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his lips crack with more than the pressure of his own teeth, as he’d bitten them while trying to keep himself from groaning. 

Napoleon looks around the room. His neck stings with the tiniest of movements but he’s able to conclude that Bug had left nothing behind. All of his tools have been taken, the chair and the table are gone, even the clip-hook that held Napoleon’s chains to the ceiling has been undone and put away. Napoleon tries to drag his hand over his face and regrets it immediately when his finger presses into a bruise. He releases a long sigh. 

For all that Bug is horrible at torture, he’s not half bad at keeping prisoners. Any hope Napoleon would’ve been able to salvage something to use in an escape plan is doused as soon as it came, and Napoleon presses his back against the scratchy surface of the soundproofing panels, trying to take some rest while he still can. 

He must have nodded off again, because when he opens his eyes the room is much lighter. 

Napoleon stands, strangely proud of being able to hold his own weight, to see that the clouds of that morning had given away to a blue sky. He’s so distracted by the sight of the sun that he almost jumps out of his own skin when something moves in the corner of his eye. He blinks to the sudden change in light, and then registers the sound of snuffling. A soft whine. 

A golden eye peaks through the window, and a snout presses against the glass between the iron bars. Napoleon watches the dog with held breath. He tries to move his hand up against the glass in some sort of greeting, but his arm hurts too much above a certain point. It is futile anyway; the moment he twitches, the dog starts to growl and gives a loud bark. His eyes flash with wild rage. Napoleon takes an instinctive step back from the beast. 

The manacles around his feet stop him in his tracks so Napoleon just stays there, watching as the dog abandons his static growling to pace in front of the window. The clicking of his nails against the concrete is only audible because Napoleon does his utmost to breathe as quietly as he can. 

The door opens. Bug walks inside with a collection of his men following him in. They carry the missing pieces of the room back to their place, a precise mirror of yesterday, and it leaves Napoleon feeling vaguely disorientated. He is not comfortable with the idea that the only way to track time here are the wounds on his body. 

“I see you met Percy,” Bug says. “We found a litter in our garage a few years back, trained them up nice and kind, as you saw.” He turns to his table, running his eyes over his collection and holding up a few into the light before putting them back again. “They roam free over the property, just a warning in case you felt like taking a walk.” 

“You could do with teaching those beasts some manners,” Napoleon says, hating the fragility of his voice, like the cuts on his skin left marks inside of him. “He’s about to bite the hand that feeds him.” 

Bug shrugs. “I don’t. So who cares?” 

He turns to two broad-shouldered men and barks in Serbian at them. They jump into motion at once. Napoleon has barely time to feel dread before they manhandle him into position. Instead of the ceiling, they kick him down on his knees and draw his chains wide so that his arms are splayed open towards either side of a wall. It hurts like a bitch, but the position allows him to lean most of his weight on his knees instead of his arms, so it feels like a minor improvement— save for the fact that his back is turned to Bug now, which makes his skin crawl. 

After he’s been secured, one of the men shoves an open water bottle between his lips. Napoleon almost chokes on the first gulp of water and coughs up a lung in the process. The man slaps him on his back harshly for a few whacks, and pushes the bottle against his mouth again. Napoleon drinks desperately, the cool water falling on his empty stomach like ice. The bottle is soon empty and Napoleon can’t help but groan when man moves away. 

“More,” he gasps. “I need more.” 

Bug laughs and steps between legs, looming over him from behind. Napoleon cranes his neck to be able to see him, and keeps a wary eye on what seems to be a meat cleaver in Bug’s hand. 

“You have to earn it,” Bug sing-songs, and suddenly the two sharp ends of the cleaver press into each side of his spine. It drags down down down, deeper and deeper, until Napoleon lets out a shout and tries to arch his back away from Bug. The chains creak with the strain and press deeper into the welts around Napoleon’s wrists. His breath comes with force, heaving like he’s run a mile, and Napoleon feels sweat start to form around his shoulders as he tries and fails to pull away. 

Bug releases him at last, throwing the cleaver a corner of the room Napoleon is facing, and he sees his own blood staining its rusted surface. 

“If you don’t want me to die,” Napoleon mutters, “you need to give me more. I’m dehydrated.” 

_Crack_

Napoleon’s vision whites out. His head snaps back, causing a shooting pain in his neck, and he blinks to a wave of dizziness, as the bright light makes way for black spots. 

“Do not talk without my permission,” Bug bites out. His careless curiosity of yesterday seems to have vanished, replaced with something more brutal. Napoleon shudders. He didn’t think Bug had an even darker side to him. 

Anger is a curse when someone holds a blade to your neck. One impulsive twitch is enough to end your life, and whatever changed since yesterday has made Bug exponentially more lethal. Napoleon is hurting all over; he feels like he’s been skinned alive, but the wounds are superficial. Even the deep cuts are shallow, relatively, and though he’s going to get an infection any day, he’s not about to pass out from blood loss. The dehydration is the worst of it, and despite him saying differently, the water bottle did help matters. 

But now he’s pretty sure he has a concussion, all because he made Bug lose his temper, by saying something Napoleon thought he would have snarked back to. Something has changed, and Napoleon needs to recalibrate the way he’s handling this, before it kills him. 

“Please,” he mumbles. Disgust brews on his tongue, he allows himself to slide into a pleading tone. “Please, I’m so thirsty.” 

The mood in the room changes immediately. There is a sudden quiet, only broken by Bug’s men standing guard behind them as they seem to breathe in sync. Bug breaks the silence by stepping over Napoleon’s leg and coming around to face him. His face is livid and he takes Napoleon by the jaw, pressing his cheeks into his teeth as he yanks his chin up. 

“One day and you break,” Bug says, seeming to force some sort of smugness into his voice. “I’d hoped for more.” He drops Napoleon’s head, leaving him to hang low with his short strands of hair falling into his eyes. Napoleon presses his lips together to hold back a sudden sway of nausea— he can’t afford to lose what’s left in his stomach. 

“Are you ready to answer my question now?” Bug asks. “Where is the painting?” 

Napoleon closes his eyes and braces for impact. “I burned it, because my father wanted it. I destroyed it so he could never have it.” 

He’s said this before, even though Bug didn’t ask him. He repeated it over and over in the hope that Bug would finally get bored, realise he wouldn’t get anything out of him and finish the job. 

Bug lets out a guttural growl of frustration, but nothing hits Napoleon’s face. Instead he speaks Serbian again, addressing one of the men behind them who replies slowly, sounding confused. The following conversation ends quickly when Bug grabs the meat cleaver and throws it towards the thug. Then there is the sound of something clicking and the push of leather against fabric. 

Napoleon knows exactly what that means. It’s familiar enough for Napoleon to instinctively start pulling on his restraints. 

Bug laughs savagely, and smiling down at Napoleon with a glint in his eye. “I am so sick and tired of your tragic fucking childhood story. I thought you were lying through your teeth— but you weren’t, weren’t you?” 

An arm comes into Napoleon’s periphery to hand Bug a long leather belt. Bug twines the end with the buckle around his wrist and inspects the offensive thing like one would weigh the balance of a blade. 

“Let’s see if your daddy ever figured out a way to get you to talk,” Bug says, and a hint of his previous spirit is back— brought on by the opportunity for psychological torture, it seems. 

Napoleon looks straight on, refusing to show anything in his face, and doesn’t flinch when the_ snap _of the belt clacks through the air. Bug tests his technique without touching him for a few harsh strikes. Napoleon holds steady, trying to keep his breathing calm as he tries to remind himself that this is a pain he knows. This is something he’s prepared for, this is an advantage for him, there is nothing to be afraid off— this is nothing new.

But the pooling sweat trickling down his neck bely this fairytale, and Napoleon knows that in his attempt to bore Bug into quitting, he’d accidentally given him the greatest weapon to hurt him. His father’s voice starts to seep into his ear as he hears Bug pace behind him. Napoleon loses himself in the anticipation, feeling himself drift farther and farther as he waits for the snap. 

It seems like an age until Bug takes a deep and focused breath. Time seems to slow down at once. The sound of the belt whizzing through the feels almost dreamlike, and Napoleon stands on a precipice, reality turns into void of abstract memories and the coming pain. Fantasy and unrealities form a temptation before Napoleon’s feet, beckoning him to escape into nothingness. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get back if he chooses to jump. 

He doesn’t know if this will be the time he finally forgets who he is. For good. 

But then the sharp pain of the belt sears into the underside of his back. Napoleon takes the step over the edge — and drowns. 

———

Salvation turns out to be what Napoleon imagined the drift would feel like. 

He’d known that he would never experience it; would be long gone before he could. The Russians only let their S.O.P agents try the drift once they’ve found someone compatible. Because the drift could be disastrous for those who couldn’t handle it; it’s too dangerous to make every recruit go through it, before they are fairly sure they won’t get hurt. 

Instead, they’d listened to lectures on the subject, read about the sensation in class, and of course had theorised among themselves, long discussions in late evenings. 

But even the teachers who had experienced the drift themselves had admitted that it they could never quite put it into words. Language evolved over eons to describe things known to humanity, and drifting is an experience so novel that the right words just haven't been invented yet. Not to mention that every drift is just a bit different, influenced by the mindscapes of the two pilots in question. So even if Napoleon had known about the drift, he wouldn’t have known about his own. 

Despite these disclaimers, the program had tried to prepare their students to the best of their ability, and on their vague descriptions Napoleon had built his own. They had been told about the fluctuating blue, the way images flowed and changed like ink in water. And about told the rush of memories, emotions, sensations, that were suddenly at the fingertips of the drifter, both from their mind and from their partners’. 

The teachers had warned about those memories: the way they could draw you in and make you lost. They'd called it the rabbit hole, and even in only five months, Napoleon had gotten the mantra firmly into stuck in his head. 

_Don’t follow the rabbit hole. You'll drown. _

So that might be why something inside him fights back, when the pain of reality drives him deeper and deeper. As if he's crossing some rule he barely understands.

The teachers had warned how some memories had a pull, like an emotional magnetisation, that form traps into the drifter’s mind. Those of trauma pull at the strings of fear, forcing a drifter back into the moment, with the horror and panic that comes with.

Napoleon recognises this as the whip of the belt creates murky images of his father in the _blue blue blue—_ his voice a stripe of black like a bleeding cut. Sometimes proud, sometimes sweet, sometimes burning. Napoleon breathes deep, inhaling the blue like smoke — _don’t follow the rabbit, don't follow the rabbit_ — and turns away. 

They also warned of unanswered questions: explained how curiosity could tilt a drifter over the edge. They had said that secrets could be dangerous between partners, if one cannot control themselves to keep away from what the other hides. 

Napoleon shares his mind with nothing but his own pain, but there are still many questions released into the ether. Figures who are him but not quite talk over each other as they introduce himself with different names. A question, tired but looming, hangs over them all, like the premise of a child's game. 

Simon had been born in the same county. Nicolai had a love for languages, Italian in particular. Daniel wore suits whenever he could and Philip adored to indulge in high end meals his accountant pockets shouldn’t be able to subsidise.

I'm Simon— I’m Nicolai— I’m Daniel— I’m Lucien— I’m Alexander— I’m—

_Which one is real?_

Vincenzo White— 

“No— No, that’s wrong. It’s Cowboy. Right, Peril?”

“… Peril?” 

Napoleon watches them for a long time, observing the differences between all the people he's made himself be. Their movements, their smiles, the words they speak. But after a timeless time, he becomes overwhelmed with the similarities. How much _him_ is in all of them. He feels like he's looking at pieces of a broken puzzle destroyed by a force he doesn’t understand, and slowly starts to back away— 

What if he puts them back together wrong, what if he can never solve it— 

Napoleon takes another step over the ledge, and falls deeper, trying to escape one more pain. 

The last warning had been given by a teacher who'd been replacing someone fallen ill. It had been a Jaeger pilot who'd had to bow out of service after only two months, stating that he wasn't cut out for the drift. He'd never told the full story, but what he pressed upon their hearts gave Napoleon more than enough to go on.

"Some people tend to have a darker mind than others," he'd said. ”This doesn't have to be a problem, but be aware for a rabbit hole little talked about. Instead of fear or curiosity, there is another powerful pull; one hard to resist. _Happiness._

"Imagine a life where everything holds a bit less colour, a shade of existence where good things can happen, but they have less impact— or brightness, than they would have for anyone else.

"Now imagine this mind sharing another, instead of being alone and dark, they are now lighted by the presence of someone— someone who fits. That person brings in light, even if that person isn't light themselves, and when you're used to the dark, this can be intoxicating."

Napoleon remembers his smile; so morose, too old for such a young face. 

"There are those, sadly, who are able to become addicted to the drift. Who want to stay in the moment of transition forever, and never come out. This is where danger lurks. Because now saved from their shadow, the experiences filled with happiness shine brighter than they ever done before. You can reaccess them, live through them endlessly, and use them to fill the hollow space that rarely feels whole.” 

He’d looked at each of them, his gaze seeming to pass through their souls. "So know yourself, and beware of the temptation of bliss.”

Hung on chains in a crime lord’s prison cell, as Illya's soft voice starts to draw him in, Napoleon learns that he is one of those dark people. The image of Illya’s smile fills his mind with a warmth that no agony can touch. Napoleon learns what bliss truly feels like and the temptation is too great. As his mind drifts farther and farther away, Napoleon realises there is a happiness out there that he never knew existed—never thought he would feel. 

Until now.

So despite the warnings— despite _everything_, Napoleon falls into Illya's arms once again, when he really _really _shouldn't have.

But it seems Napoleon can't refuse Illya anything, even if he isn't real. 

———

First come the memories. Napoleon runs through them one by one, caressing each with a careful touch, like how a conservator treats the paintings in their care. He’s able to pass through them like a ghost, repossess his past self and experience the moment exactly as it was— but brighter now, contrasted by the horrors of reality. Illya is loving, Illya is kind, Illya is everything he wants, and after weeks of pushing him away, Napoleon finally lets himself have it again. Just like he did the first time. 

He feels every kiss, cherishes every touch, listens to every song, and he thinks he’s crying not from pain but from exhilaration. The luxury of being able to do this all over again. 

_Che vuole questa musica, stasera… _

He’s so goddamn glad he wasn’t able to destroy these memories for good. They are treasures; the only true riches Napoleon ever stole and the only theft that matters. But he doesn’t think about stealing, or the betrayal that had ended it all. He enjoys Illya — the Illya who loves him still — and repeats their past until he can’t anymore. 

Exhaustion starts to blur the lines between memory and fantasy, and it’s not long before Napoleon is imagining things Illya has never said to him, doing things they’ve never done. While he’s vaguely aware when Bug switches from a belt to a whip, Napoleon is dragging through art museums telling him about the pieces with grandeur, while Illya listens with a long-suffering sigh and an oh so fond smile on his lips. 

When the beatings suddenly stop and Napoleon is dumped on the ground, he imagines their first night in their new apartment; no mattress, no furniture— only them, a bottle of wine and a lonely lamp, as they cuddle up together in sleeping bags. 

He can hear the music Illya puts up the next morning, taste the bad coffee pressed into his hands. 

_I'm under your spell_

_Ain't nobody's business_

_I'm already there_

He feels Illya’s soft smile spread light through his body as Illya drags his finger over the certificate in his hands. His thumb caresses Napoleon’s true name. 

“Can’t get rid of me now,” Illya says. The silver band around his finger glints in the light. 

_If I die I don't care I'm in love._

_I'm in love, I'm in love with this man—_

Napoleon is dragged back into reality at knife point. Bug’s eyes are wild as he yells, “Tell me! _Fucking tell me!”_ Napoleon merely smiles and leans against Illya, kissing his hand as they hang the certificate on the wall— framed, their very first and most precious art piece. 

_I got caught out, caught out, caught out. _

When the pain becomes too much to hold back, Napoleon lets fantasy and reality melt into each other. Now it’s Illya who gives him water, cradling his jaw gently as Napoleon gulps it down. Now there is Illya, holding him, stroking his head when Bug has finally gone. His fingers card through Napoleon’s hair with reverence and his murmured complaints about the short strands help Napoleon to finally fall asleep. 

Napoleon imagines Illya pacing up and down the room, muttering, “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him,” over and over again. He imagines Illya taking a gun and shooting six bullets through Bug’s skull. He imagines Illya breaking his manacles with his bare hands and never feeling pain again. 

He talks to Illya as if he’s there, and that scares him. What if he accidentally betrays Illya’s escape plans? What if he lets him down, like he did before? 

So he tries to keep quiet, feeling his unreal touch as a balm, keeping him sane in insanity. He just watches, just listens, and enjoys the company he keeps. Illya yells, Illya screams, Illya sings him to sleep. 

Illya holds him up when he can’t, allays the pain with such gentleness that Napoleon sobs. His hands feel like marks upon his skin, and he could almost believe they would heal him, if he didn’t know for certain that Illya can never, ever touch his wounds. 

Illya kisses him, begs him, pleads, “Cowboy, I can help you. I promise. Just let me heal you,let me fix you,_ please.”_

But Napoleon refuses, telling him that he already is; his presence is the only thing keeping him here. Illya always frowns, and always asks again moments later. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t cross that one line— he doesn’t touch where it truly hurts. 

Because Napoleon knows with a sick certainty that if Illya were to touch the cuts in his skin, it would make him disappear. 

The infiltration of true agony would break the illusion and Napoleon would be alone— Illya would be gone— and Napoleon would do anything to prevent that. Even though the spaces Illya can touch him grow smaller by the day. 

———

Napoleon has imagined Illya rescuing so many times that he’s not all that surprised when he hears a gunshot behind him. He hears Bug fall. The whip clatters to the ground next to Napoleon’s knee. He listens to the gurgles of his last breath with deep satisfaction, and he waits on the frantic “_Cowboy,_” that always follows. Then Illya will rush forward, his footsteps hitting the ground harder than the gunshot, and press his forehead against Napoleon’s, showing the worry steeped into his tired face.

But none of that happens. 

After the gunshot it stays eerily quiet, enough for Napoleon to scrape barest amounts of energy together and turn his neck. 

He freezes. 

A figure stands over Bug’s limp body. He’s wearing tactical gear and a ski-mask, and is checking Bug’s pulse. Bug is silent, his eyes unseeing toward the ceiling. There are pieces of his brain covering the floor. 

Napoleon’s heart jumps into his throat when the man notices him looking. He can’t move an inch as the figure nears slowly. His combat boots splattered with blood. 

He puts a hand out toward Napoleon, almost gentle like approaching a skittish animal, and Napoleon croaks, “Illya?”

The man reaches for his back, and Napoleon flinches, writhing away from the hand, because there are wounds there and— “No, _please_, no— Illya._ I don’t want you to go._ Please— don’t go.” 

Illya ignores him and his hand touches the edge of a deep cut. Napoleon crumples into himself, too overwhelmed with dread to make a sound. He waits. His jaw clenches tighter and tighter as the seconds tick past and Illya— Illya stays. 

Napoleon lets out a sob— “Illya,” he says, overrun with relief. 

Illya still doesn’t reply. He cocks his head to the side as if he’s listening to something Napoleon can’t hear, and then reaches up to his ear and speaks. 

The voice is wrong. 

“I got him. Delirious and infected, but alive.” 

Napoleon blinks, the world tilts as he sways forward. This, this is not—

Bug is dead. He’s being saved. 

This isn’t Illya. 

Somewhere in his hindbrain he knows he should be ecstatic— he’s getting rescued for christ’s sake — but he wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cry. 

Illya is gone. 

Napoleon starts shaking, his teeth clatter together and there is a thunderstorm inside his skull. 

“Who,” Napoleon tries, his voice halting and crackling, breath hitching around the words, “who— are— you?” 

The man leans forward and presses a finger to Napoleon’s pulse. He taps on his earpiece and growls out, “Get doctor. _Now.” _

Napoleon suddenly recognises that gruff commanding tone and realisation falls over him like a cresting wave, dragging him from the shoreline into the deep ocean blue. 

He can just slip out, “…_Hound?” _before everything goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uni is certainly something. Any donated good vibes would be appreciated <3 I love the study but Boi I'm busy and tired af.


	8. The Handler

Napoleon comes around slowly, gingerly, but with a harsh edge to it— like crawling up a rocky beach after being lost in the ocean for too long. He blinks but doesn’t open his eyes fully yet, because even enclosed in soft blackness he can feel a deep throb pushing through the back of his neck, trailing down from his head to the tips of his shoulder blades. 

Not that this pain isn’t familiar by now, it’s just that he barely felt it anymore; there are sharper pains calling his attention too loudly for these aches to register. 

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, on the off chance it’ll bring those pain back again. 

But there is something wrong about the absence, as if more than pain has been taken away. A horrible thought catches in his mind, ripping through the peaceful black: he can’t feel the pain because he can’t feel his back. 

Except— there is something. 

A pressure more than a sensation. Napoleon hisses when it suddenly becomes stronger and stronger. It feels like— tugging, like someone is pulling at his skin, but the skin had lost some of its sensation, had given up feeling in response to too much pain. Napoleon grits his teeth and presses his lips together— any reaction will only lead to more suffering. Bug loves it when he screams. 

The tugging stops and Napoleon tries to tune out his throbbing temples to listen— get some sense of what the fuck Bug did to him. 

He takes a moment, breathes, and—

There is music playing? 

_Quand le temps va et vient_

It’s soft, so soft Napoleon thinks it’s coming from his own head at first. But as he focuses, more sounds become available and— there. The notes of a song; a gentle French voice. He can’t understand it, too muddy to translate, but he cannot help but be comforted by it, as much as he’s suspicious of this new development. 

_On ne pense à rien_

Bug never played music— or at least Napoleon had never been in the right mind to notice if he did. It feels like a clue, some kind of hint that could solve the puzzle of what is going on. Because now that he thinks about it, his prison never had a mattress either, and the soft fabric he’s laying on definitely feels like one.

_Malgré ses blessures_

He’s been sleeping on his front ever since the whip, but the floor had never made for a comfortable bed. So it’s kind of peculiar that his face is buried in a pillow and his hands are gripping a blanket of some kind. Napoleon gathers all this information in a big pile, and feels virtually hopeless in making sense of it. He’s so goddamn tired.

“He wake up.” 

Napoleon flinches. He doesn’t know that voice. Male, accented, low and grating— a smoker. _Not one of Bug’s guys,_ Napoleon hopes. 

Something creaks a bit further away, and Napoleon can’t keep himself blind any longer. He tilts his head to the side and opens his eyes, trying to blink the haziness away. 

The Hound is looming over his bedside, one hand on his gun and the other snapping his fingers before Napoleon’s face. 

“Solo?” 

There is that tugging again— Napoleon ignores the Hound in favour for twisting his neck around awkwardly, trying to get a view of his back. He finds a man instead, older and focused, bowed over Napoleon’s lower back as he’s putting a bandage over the wounds. Napoleon can’t feel his fingers as they smooth over the fabric, only the pressure when he tightens the bandages to keep them secure. 

The sluggish murk in his brain suddenly snaps into shape. Panic tightens Napoleon’s throat. Bug didn’t— his legs— he can’t feel— what did that fucker do to his spine?

He grunts, trying to move his toe with a desperation he thought he’d lost. Napoleon releases a forceful breath when he can feel it twitch at his command. The man looks up from his work and presses his foot down with strong, callused hands. Napoleon could cry at the realisation that he can actually feel them pressing onto his skin— localised anaesthetic, it must be. 

“Do not move,” the man says, his frown pulls his brows together in a mess of wrinkles. “Please.” 

“Solo,” the Hound says, pulling Napoleon’s attention away from the strange man— a doctor, hopefully, not some poor soul the Hound dragged off the street. 

The Hound crosses his arms when Napoleon looks at him, which might as well be a full sentence for him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Napoleon says, grimacing when the presumed doctor does something that causes a sharp pain on a place that evidently still has full sensing capabilities, much to Napoleon’s acute regret. “I heard you the first time.” 

The Hound watches silently for a moment, his usual stare now more pointed. “You made a mess.” 

“This, going to sting,” the doctor says quietly. 

“Ahh—“ Napoleon crushes the fabric in his fists and pushes out a short breath when the pain passes as suddenly as it came. “I’ve heard that one before,” he tells them both. 

“You angered powerful men,” the Hound says. 

Napoleon cannot help but roll his eyes. He throws the Hound a sideways grin, as much as he can while half his face is still pressed into a pillow. “I’ve noticed.” 

The Hound takes a deep breath. He looks half-way into a hail-Mary, and Napoleon never knew how much he needed that expression to brighten up his mood. 

But no matter how satisfying the Hound’s shuttered features might be, it only adds to Napoleon’s confusion as to what the hell is actually going on. “About that,” Napoleon says, “You didn’t save me from those fuckers out of the goodness of your heart, because you don’t have one. So why did you? Why are you here?” 

He pushes himself up to his elbows, ignoring the annoyed huff that comes from the doctor, and waits for the Hound’s response. 

The Hound looks at Napoleon and then his gaze flickers sideways the doctor and back again. His face is completely blank, and the following words seem to be chosen carefully. “A favour is owed.” 

Napoleon almost drops himself back on the bed, his arms unsteady with a deep sense of dread. 

When he realises that his arms aren’t going to stop shaking, he lowers himself gingerly and lets his head fall on the pillow with a groan. “You should have left me there to rot,” he mumbles, muffled and mostly to himself. 

The Hound ignores him either way, instead addressing the doctor, who finally has stopped furthering Napoleon’s close acquaintanceship with pain and torture. 

“Will he live?” 

Napoleon tilts his head to follow the conversation and is just in time to see the Hound press a stack of cash in the doctor’s hand. 

“He lives,” the doctor says, “but he need hospital for back. Great scars, if not.” 

The Hounds finds Napoleon’s eye and shakes his head once, with finality. “No,” he says, boring his gaze into Napoleon’s skull. “No hospital. He’s earned them.” 

Napoleon feels that stinger land even despite the drugs and he has to keep his lips pressed tight together to keep from saying anything that would likely get him killed. Because fuck, if the Hound is ever right about anything it’s that, but that doesn’t mean Napoleon likes to hear it from anyone but himself. 

Luckily the Hound steps out to follow the doctor, giving Napoleon a moment to dive back into the heavenly numbness. He only resurfaces when the Hound shoves a bowl of… something underneath his face, and then grabs one of Napoleon’s arms, turning it by the wrist. 

“From the hacker,” the Hound says, pushing a folded piece of paper into Napoleon’s hands. Napoleon lets out a soft groan and turns deeper into his blankets and hears Hound stomp away moments later. Napoleon opens one eye, checking if the Hound is truly gone, and then turns on his side to open the paper. It’s creased and dirty but Napoleon can just read Muse’s slanted handwriting in between the stains. 

_I paid half of my month’s salary to him to give you this so you better read it. _

_FUCK YOU_

And then, in tiny letters in the corner: _don’t die. _

Napoleon falls back onto his stomach, overwhelmed with emotions he has no name for. 

For just a moment, all pain disappears.

———

All things considered, the Hound isn’t as bad of a nurse Napoleon expected him to be. He’s often absent, always glowering, and his bedside manner has some potential for improvement, but he keeps Napoleon on a steady stream of painkillers which means Napoleon doesn’t have enough space in the murkiness enveloping his mind to make a complaint. One could say that he barely has any space for thoughts all together, but Napoleon doesn’t think about that all too much. 

It’s when the Hound rushes back into their cosy abandoned warehouse with a streak of blood across his face that Napoleon realises he might not be in the best hands for a smooth recovery. The gunshots that follow his entrance only confirm that fact. 

Napoleon pushes himself off the makeshift bed, but the drugs make it hilariously hard to put his feet in the right order. He ends up collapsing in laughter, as the window above him shatters and the glass rains over him. Another bullet whizzes through and a part of Napoleon snaps back into place.

He rolls to the floor and crawls to the wall, pressing himself against it— forgetting the cuts on his back for a crucial moment. Judging by the blood that immediately starts to seep down his lower back, he must have ripped multiple stitches. The sharp pain that comes with it rips away the curtain of numbness. For the first time in days Napoleon feels horribly sober, and he vows to find a remedy the moment he escapes this life-or-death situation. 

The Hound snaps something at him, but it’s covered by the sound of their door being kicked in. The Hound whips around and shoots thrice. Napoleon can’t see from his angle, but he hears the groans of three separate people and suddenly the gunshots stop. 

The Hound stalks toward the figures, pistol whips all of them and loots their pockets. He throws Napoleon one of their guns— without the safety, on the fucker — and nods towards the exit their visitors so gallantly left open for them.

“We’re going,” the Hound snarls, and he stalks out. 

“I got that,” says Napoleon. He reloads the gun and tucks it into his waistband and looks around the room for anything he can grab. In the end he takes the jacket off one of the gunmen and wraps it around his shoulders, hoping it will keep out the night’s chill a bit more than his bandages will. Then he follows the Hound outside. 

He finds the Hound on the small parking lot before the warehouse. He’s dragging a body out of the driver’s seat of an SVU with one bullet hole in the front window— exactly where a head would have been. The rest of the parking lot looks like a war zone. There are at least three dead, while the rest seem to be a mix of bleeding out, heavily injured, and surviving but groaning uselessly. Napoleon walks up to one of them to check their pulse out of some stupid instinct— he’s seen and done some horrific things in the last few months but to see carnage like this before him and not do anything—

“Police,” the Hound snaps at him. “_Come.”_

Napoleon nods with suppressed relief and covers his lingering by taking the Glock from the unconscious man before him. He replaces the smaller handgun the Hound gave him with it, and the familiar grip immediately makes him feel a little safer, but yet also a lot sicker. 

“Where are we going?” Napoleon asks the Hound as they speed away. 

Between the drug dosages, Napoleon had caught a few conversations the Hound had on the phone— presumably with Victoria. He hadn’t processed the details, but had caught the general gist that the particular crime lord Napoleon that had stolen from had made sure that they wouldn’t be able to leave the country until the heat had died down. But he had also, as evidenced by the events of the night, sent his goons on fishing trips, stretching far and wide to catch their hideout in their proverbial nets. 

The Hound doesn’t answer until they’ve driven onto a highway and Napoleon has almost forgotten the question. 

“Where they won’t look for us.” 

Napoleon, who had closed his eyes and was half-way into a dreamless sleep, barely blinks at the answer and then slides back into darkness. The puzzle only falls into place when he sees the familiar city streets he’d only just barely escaped two weeks ago. 

But the Hound’s ploy seems work. They don’t have any trigger-heavy visitors for the following days of Napoleon’s recovery. Napoleon concludes that the Hound might be a mediocre nurse at best, he really isn’t that bad of a babysitter. 

———

As Napoleon weans off the painkillers in slow but excruciating increments the Hound leaves on long and longer excursions. All is peachy in the Runaway Household. 

Napoleon doesn’t particularly mind the absences of his keeper, as this brings him closer and closer to his goal. He’s had a lot of time to think lately, staring up the mould-infested ceiling with nothing to do but wait for his body to function properly again. There are many things Napoleon puts a lot of effort into not thinking about— most of them include torture and all of them include Illya — but there other more important problems to fill his mind with. 

The most pressing being that Napoleon cannot, will not, under any circumstances work for Victoria again. 

He’s done. He’s done with all of this. He keeps the glock out of a terrible need for safety and control, but he’s more than ready to throw it in a river the first chance he gets. He’s tried everything, from reinventing himself to falling into the darkest paths he’s ever been on, and none of it worked. None of it healed over the terrible gashes into his heart and soul— lessened the guilt he’s so desperately been trying to escape. And still, Napoleon would do anything to get rid of it— to not feel it — but he knows a lost cause where he sees one and this part of him is not going to fucking solve anything. If anything, it’s making it worse, hurting more and more people he doesn’t want to hurt. 

Didn’t ever want to hurt. 

Muse gave him a second chance at life. Muse saved his life despite what he did to Jemaine, what he did to the team, and Napoleon isn’t going to waste her gift making the same mistake over and over again. Victoria might be right, he might go out of his mind without this part of his life— adrenaline, the satisfaction of a job well done, doing something he’s _good_ at — but at this point Napoleon would rather be horrendously bored and _alive_ rather than entertained and one step away from death. 

He’d rather go insane than lie to himself one more day. 

Because he’s been lying. He’s good at that too, but the cracks have always been showing, and Napoleon is just so fucking sick of pretending that there will be a day that he won’t be heartbroken. That this— what he feels now — is anything he can fix. He has to get out, be truly miserable somewhere, and finally feel what he did. He’s got to stop running. 

It isn’t going to be fun, he knows. He might drink himself in a ditch within a week. But at least he’d tried. At least he’d stopped lying. 

But those are thoughts for another day. The first order of business is figuring out how to get out—, _out_ out— never have to use a gun again out. Besides a crime-lord after his ass, Victoria won’t be exactly pleased to lose him before she’s extracted her favour out of him. She’s always been fierce when it came to debts. Napoleon had just thought he’d have more time than this— or no, that might be a bit of a lie again. 

Napoleon had just thought he’d be dead before she tried. 

But he isn’t. In the grand scheme of things that’s good news. The problem comes with making sure she’s not going to send the Hound to collect him again, and there is only really one person who could make sure Napoleon won’t ever be found. The question is whether she’ll help him or not. Napoleon spends about 75% of his time doubting if he even has the right to ask her. She’s saved him and send him the letter, so she seems to give some type of shit— but wouldn’t that be just manipulating again? 

In the end Napoleon decides that if she doesn’t think him deserving of her help, that she would say so. Jemaine was— Napoleon knew he was compromised in some way, he knew he was using something, and the thought still makes him sick that he was able to do so. But Muse doesn’t feel about him in that way— there is fondness, there might have been a friendship if Napoleon hadn’t fucked it all up, but there isn’t that glaring weakness he’d simultaneously denied and utilised. Muse would tell him to rot in his own shit if she wanted to. He’s almost sure she’s going to say no anyway, so asking wouldn’t hurt, right?

Napoleon doesn’t have the answers to his questions by the time he finally has the chance to act on them. The only thing he knows is that he needs to get the fuck out of this business, so he just has to ask. He has to know if there is any damn hope for him. 

In the years they’ve worked together, Muse and Napoleon quickly came to an unspoken agreement that there are certain things Victoria must not, under any circumstances, know about. But the eagle-eye of their matron is a keen one, so this verged a series of complex schemes Napoleon can’t think about without getting a headache. 

One of their precautions was something Muse had set up pretty early in their working relationship. It’s an encrypted chat box on a Muse fan-forum from 2011, intended solely for emergencies. No one knows about it besides the two of them, and Napoleon feels a hint of guilt for loading up the flashy webpage with all its original layout still intact. He could very well make it unusable after this, and Muse would have to make something all over again. 

He enters the password Muse had etched into his skull and he’s sent to an account by the name of Unsustainable263. Napoleon huffs, amused; Muse had had a read on him early it seems. 

He follows the instructions handily noted down in the accounts bio page, in one of the codes Muse had written for herself, and eventually ends up into what seems like the right chat box. It has a disco ball animation in the corner, and a banana dancing emoji that Napoleon cannot help but feel disturbed by, but he ignores all that in favour of formulating his message in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a manipulative douchebag. 

He fails. 

**Unsustainable263: **Thank you for getting me out of that spot of trouble. I’m doing fine, by the way. But I’ve found myself in another, more familiar, spot of trouble, and I need out. You’re the one that found me. I need to make sure she can’t find me again. I’m done, with all of it. I need to get out, preferably before I die. 

Napoleon leans away from the laptop, rereading the message a hundred times after he’s already sent it. He gives himself an hour of waiting before erasing the history and putting the laptop back. The Hound will be back in about three hours but he doesn’t want to risk cutting it close. 

But he shouldn’t have underestimated Muse. There is a reply within ten minutes.

**TheHandler: **Comseq? 

**Unsustainable263: **Clear. Three hours, max. Predator utility. 

**TheHandler: **Wipe when done. 

**Unsustainable263: **Copy. 

**TheHandler: **Initiate secondary line. 

Napoleon waits a moment and watches their messages disappear like they’ve never been sent. The website loads a pop-up screen that looks completely blank, but a second later Muse’s username lights up blue. 

**TheHandler: **V is out. We’ve got some time. What are you asking me?

**Unsustainable263: **All my aliases erased, including the ones I think she doesn’t know about. I need to be sure. 

**TheHandler: **You’ll need a new one. 

**Unsustainable263: **I’ll handle that. 

**TheHandler: **No, you won’t. You’ll need money for that. Guess how she’s been tracing you. 

Napoleon hisses, the pieces falling together like a blow to the chest. He remembers Victoria’s message that had come along with the deposit,_ the debt is paid_. As much as he hates her guts, he has to respect the fucking irony. The debt is paid, until she gets him into another one, of course. 

**Unsustainable263: **Fuck. 

**TheHandler: **Yeah. That. 

Napoleon stares past the screen for a moment. The only thing interrupting the quiet is the humming from the laptop’s overburdened ventilators. The implications of Victoria’s ploy are only slowly revealing himself to him— he’d planned to offer Muse as much cash as she would want. All of it, if that’s what it took. But now, he can’t. Victoria would trace it and Muse would suffer for his escape. 

A ping shakes him from his thoughts. Napoleon reads Muse’s new message with a profound sense of relief and confusion. He’s got nothing to offer her. Why is she still here?

**TheHandler: **The money is not what I’m worried about. It’s time. I’d need to establish a new identity. I’d need to erase every single trace of all your old ones. And I’d need to implement a breadcrumb trail to lead the Queen on to give you time to escape and to waylay any suspicion of me …. I’d have to do all that without getting killed for it.

Napoleon blinks. Half of him wants to ask why the hell she even thinking about doing any of that, but the survivalist in him doesn’t dare to break the spell. The two sides play tug of war while his fingers type out a compromise. 

**Unsustainable263: **It’s a big ask. 

He leaves the ‘you don’t have to,’ implied. 

**TheHandler: **You’re an asshole and I hate your guts, but by some ungodly miracle I don’t want you to actually die. 

**Unsustainable263: **Thanks. 

**TheHandler: **And I’m not stupid enough to think I don’t owe you a few, over the years, to at least entertain the notion of helping you. 

**TheHandler: **You’re still a dick, though. 

**Unsustainable263: **Can’t argue with that. 

**TheHandler: **Maybe you should. 

Napoleon is at a loss for what she means by that, but she’s already sent a next message so he lets it drop. 

**TheHandler: **Time is our enemy. I could get you a quick getaway in a few days, but something solid…

**Unsustainable263: **Weeks. Yeah. I’ll play along with her until it’s ready. I’ll make sure there is time. Any money you can safely get out of my accounts before purging them is yours. 

**TheHandler: **I’m not doing this for the money. You’d owe me a favour, though. 

**Unsustainable263: **Ha, that sounds familiar, but sure, I don’t have a choice anyway. Hit me. Do keep in mind that for all intents and purposes, I’m retired. 

**TheHandler:** It’s not a job. I’ll tell you when I figure out if this is even possible. 

**Unsustainable263: **If it’s something that gets me back in you might as well save yourself the effort of getting me out. 

**TheHandler: **Trust me or don’t, but it’s not something like that. 

Napoleon types before he can think about it. 

**Unsustainable263: **I do, you know. 

There is a long pause. Then—

**TheHandler: **I’m going to try to get you out, but I’m not going to compromise myself more than I already am. I want to help, even though I also kinda want to shoot you for what you did to J.

**Unsustainable263: **You’re right on all points. If you’re lucky, the Hound shoots me before I can get away.

**TheHandler: **That’s not funny.

**Unsustainable263: **And of course, don’t get yourself killed saving me. I’m not worth it.

The reply is lightning quick. 

**TheHandler: **I hate your fucking victim routine so much right now.

And fuck, that cuts to the core. Napoleon doesn’t know what he’s doing. And yet what he’s saying is true: he isn’t worth it. He doesn’t want her to sacrifice herself by putting herself in danger, but at the same time, isn’t that exactly what he’s asking? 

**Unsustainable263: **Would saying sorry make it worse?

**TheHandler: **Jesus Christ. God damn you.

Napoleon reads the words. Blinks. Reads them again. Then he smiles, despite himself. He can perfectly envision the furious glare Muse must be making at the screen— the very same expression she’s sent him over their desk so many times. It hurts, knowing that she’s truly furious with him. But somehow those exact words give Napoleon the impression that she might not hate him forever. That she at least cares enough for there to be a chance.

If he proves himself to be better than he is— was. 

**Unsustainable263: **Thank you for this. Really. If I get out of this alive and you guys get away from Q, I know I’ve got a lot to make up for.

**TheHandler: **You do. Remember that. You can’t die until you’ve apologised. Get a burner so I can contact you.

**Unsustainable263: **I will. Thank you. 

**TheHandler: **Stop thanking me. You have no idea if it will work.

**Unsustainable263: **Thank you for trying. Thank you for getting me out of that basement. Just, thank you. For everything. 

**TheHandler: **Fuck off. 

Napoleon snorts and tries to come up with a reply, but Muse cuts the program right from under him. The pop-up disappears and the Muse forum reloads the log-on, with no sign of his account anywhere. He wipes the history like Muse had taught him and puts the laptop back where he took it. Napoleon takes the painkillers and sleeping pills he’s been saving up for this purpose and lets himself be dragged into a nicely medicated sleep. 

When he resurfaces he notices signs of the Hound having stomped around for at least a few hours— there is leftover pizza on the table and the sound of the shower spluttering in the background. The laptop is still at the place where Napoleon left it, so he thinks it safe to assume the Hound didn’t notice anything on toward.

Knowing Muse is on it, the twirling pools of anxiety in his mind become calmer in slow increments. There is still much that could go wrong, but he’s got an ally in the fray. The only thing he has to do is keep is head low, listen to Victoria’s demands and stretch them out for as long as possible. He’ll just have to lie to the very person who’d always been the best at seeing through his schemes, the most notable of which had landed him into her debt for years. 

Napoleon doesn’t listen to the thought that this can only go horribly wrong. He just imagines a future where he’ll never have to lie again, where the only person he has to be is the one people know him to be. 

He also ignores the thought that if he’d been better — been braver — he could have been real and true when Illya still loved him. Maybe then, Illya could have learned to loved _him_ instead of his lies. 

Or not. Maybe he’s never been someone worthy of that kind of love. Napoleon casts the thought away, but believes it even when it’s not whispering inside of his mind. He focuses on the next step, following the path of recovery to the path of escape. The path of redemption is still ahead of him. There might be some relationships, in the future, that he’s allowed to save. 

All except one, of course.

Napoleon tries to not think about it— knowing that he will, thoroughly and destructively, the moment he’s away from Victoria’s grasp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been a week, god damn. Love yall <3


	9. Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have a nice stay, Mr Vinciguerra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so before we start, IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT  
This fic will be in hiatus until I finish editing and writing the last chapters. There are at least another 4 to 5 to go, most of which is already written but still needs to be reworked, and ive had no time to write at all because of uni. Once I'm done, I'll post everything in one go. 
> 
> I'm planning to finish this fic in 2019, so hopefully this will become a fun christmas read or somethin.

When the Hound judges him healthy, they set to prepare their getaway. Victoria still hasn’t directly contacted them. Napoleon tries to dig information out of the Hound but his stoicism only worsens as they spend more time in proximity. The more he asks, the more the Hound reaches for his gun with a strange frown on his face, like he’s convincing himself not to use a bullet to get Napoleon to shut up.

In a rare attempt of self preservation, Napoleon lets it slide. Victoria will show herself when she’s ready for it, most likely with all the usual dramatics. While they’re stuck in the bowels of Serbia that might be a challenge, so she’s probably biding her time. 

Napoleon slowly goes stir-crazy, both from boredom and the wait. The Hound doesn’t let him leave the safe house, but as the preparations takes him away for longer and longer periods, Napoleon convinces the Hound to leave a burner phone behind, so that he can call in the cavalry if everything goes to shit. With the thugs still on their ass, it's not an unconvincing argument. 

The burner is put to quick use and Napoleon and Muse get into a routine of calling at least once a day. Victoria’s sudden disappearance might have made a life a tense waking nightmare of endless waiting, but it does give them the freedom to speak whenever Muse has the opportunity to slip out of the Office. 

“Have you done strength exercises today?” she asks one morning. Napoleon hears cars roar by in the background and can place exactly where she is— behind the office building towards the hill. It is in full sun at this time of day and the corner keeps even the coldest of winds away. He can almost feel the sun on his face and the chill underneath his legs, as the bench always seemed to be wet, even if it hadn’t rained in weeks. 

“There isn’t much else I can do,” Napoleon says. He leans back in a lost office chair he’d found in the abandoned building they’re staying. The springs prick into his back, but they miss the worst of the cuts. 

“That is not a yes.” 

Napoleon chuckles. “I will, don’t worry.” 

There is a long sigh at the other side of the line. Napoleon waits it out. 

“I’m not,” Muse says eventually, dismissive if it wasn’t for the pause. “You need to be in perfect condition if we’re gonna make this work.” 

There is an undercurrent of tension in her voice that Napoleon hasn’t heard since the first time they called. His stomach sinks— he expected her rightful anger to return again at some point, but he’d hoped— No, he’d wished that—

“The team is getting suspicious.” Muse talks over his thoughts bluntly but then hesitates, “I’m just— I’m concerned that it will get back to her before I can get anywhere, not worried about your capability to—“ She trails off with a sigh. 

Napoleon shakes his head once, trying to reorient himself in the conversation and in his thoughts. “Suspicious, in what way?” 

“They’re not blind,” Muse says with a scoff. “They’ve noticed that I put more time behind the screen than is needed for the job we have and skip on breaks to make extra calls. Thomas is making jokes about me being the only one who isn’t single anymore. It’s a good cover, if it didn’t make Jemaine even more miserable.” 

Napoleon swallows. They haven’t talked about Jemaine directly, but Muse doesn’t let him ignore his actions completely. He has a good enough picture to know that Jemaine didn’t throw everything he felt about Napoleon away, like Napoleon expected he would after Napoleon’s insults. Jemaine is still feeling it, the hurt— the_ heartbreak,_ and if Napoleon could regret his actions more he would. 

But Jemaine said not to contact him, and Napoleon wants to do nothing more than spare him his presence, in whatever form. He deserved— deserves, so much better. 

“I trust your judgement on how to handle it,” Napoleon says, knowing it’s a cop out as much it’s the truth. It feels wrong, keeping secrets from the team that saved his life despite his horrible actions towards them but—

“I don’t want them to be implicated. If it goes wrong, they can’t have anything to do with it,” Muse says quickly. “Victoria’s absence might help me out: I could say I’m working on something for her.” 

“But that will bite you in the ass when she comes back,” Napoleon surmises, understanding her dilemma. “Have you heard anything yet about her?” 

“Last I know she’s still in Asia, keeping an eye on the harvest of Ningen. I’ve had to look into some dark web sales claiming to be Ningen Kaiju parts that aren’t ours. So either they’re fakes or there is somebody else in town.”

“To be expected,” Napoleon says. “She couldn’t stay on top of everything forever. You think my favour is going to have to do with that? Taking out the competition?” 

“I have no idea, but I hope she doesn’t send you to Asia. The time zones are going to kill me.” 

“I’ll endeavour to keep my criminal activity around Muse-approved sleep schedules,” Napoleon says and laughs. “You’d think an energy-drink addict would be used to staying up until 4. You’re worse than Jemaine—“ 

Napoleon closes his eyes, words stuck in his throat. 

Muse sighs. She sounds tired. “I have to go. Call me when you know when you’ll leave, until then only in emergencies. I need to get them off my back.” 

“Alright,” Napoleon agrees. 

Muse hangs up before he can do something stupid like tell her to be careful, or give an apology she doesn’t want to hear— and apology that would mean nothing because everything he did in the past he can’t make right anymore. He’s running from them, even if he’s not running from himself. Muse is right— they shouldn’t implicated in any way, shape or form. Even if this works, the best thing Napoleon can do to keep them safe, is to disappear. 

Luckily he’s good at that. 

What he isn’t good at anymore is the rest. 

The Hound spars with him without mercy, using all Napoleon’s weaknesses to his advantage. While Napoleon is a sufficient fighter for survival but a better manipulator between the swings, the Hound is immune to everything Napoleon throws at him, stable where others would lose it out of frustration or pride. 

Napoleon expected losting to hit him harder than the Hound’s fist, but it doesn’t; it’s almost exhilarating. Every failed attempt only confirms his realisation that he isn’t cut out for this anymore. That even if Victoria keeps him in his grasp, she wouldn’t get any use out of him anyway. He isn’t the same person he was. 

Such a beautiful thing, to fail at something you do not wish to do any longer. It’s almost like there is space for something new now. The only thing is getting there. 

It takes a highway chase, an office building in flames and a midnight shootout, but after two days of pure tension, Napoleon and the Hound escape towards Italy relatively unscathed. The very moment they cross the border, Napoleon gives the Hound his gun. The Hound doesn’t protest, but that isn’t a surprise. Napoleon knows that he saw. 

Napoleon had hesitated before every shot, almost getting the both of them killed. But pulling the trigger without the haze of anger and loss felt too heavy. He saw the fear in their opponents’ eyes and recognised himself, stomach twisting on the idea that he’d taking Bug’s place. Mindless violence was easier when every part of him was ignoring his mind to escape the pain in his life. But now, finally listening, Napoleon can’t stomach it. He’d rather feel unprotected than being capable of doing that again.

He breathes easier, knowing that he doesn’t have to anymore. 

——— 

Venice isn’t how Napoleon remembers it. The last time he visited, he’d been alone in Victoria’s grasp. There was no team, no independence, just following her around Italy and beyond as she expanded her reign further and further. But even then, the traces of the Kaiju attacks stood out like a sore thumb— gone were the droves of tourists, the never ending meander of nonsense-shops and the consistent passage of gondolas. The streets weren’t deserted, but they were quiet, like the populace didn’t quite know what to do with the space the tourists had left them. 

Now ‘deserted’ might be a better description, though still not quite. The beautiful winding streets still hold the occasional wanderer, and small ships pass through the larger canals with a collection of people going to and fro, but their faces all hold a special sort of tension— like their home isn’t their home anymore. This, Napoleon realises, is a consequence of the loss of safety. 

Venice itself had not faced an attack directly, but Napoleon gathers from reading the news papers left on their hotel-room table that they have seen enough to know it’s only a matter of time. Two Kajius made it near the Italian shore line so far. The exact location of the breach still hasn’t been found, the beasts seem to swim for long distances underwater, and the seas are too deep and remote to search through inch by inch. 

The first, and most important, was a Cat one back when the category system hadn’t even been invented yet. A fishlike creature coined the Shark had been spotted weeks before by a American navy ship around the equator, proving the theory that they swim far and wide. 

The reports of a 35 feet sea monstrosity had been quickly brushed off as a rumour, until an Italian fishing boat learned that it was in fact real. The Shark had sunk about a dozen ships before a whaling harpoon was the end of it. It was dragged to the western Italian shore, making the Shark the first Kajiu photographed in full. And not only that, the first Kaiju able to be researched by biologists and other experts. 

It’s regarded as the turning point: humanity finally realised that something extraterrestrial had infiltrated the Earth. Napoleon remembers the frantic media chaos in the following weeks— most of it read aloud gleefully by Victoria. 

“Watch, dear Napoleon,” she’d said, her lips sharp in a smile. “This is going to be our break. Theft is passé and extortion is getting bothersome. These creatures are worth their weight in diamonds. Next time, I’m going to be ready for it. The black market has already sprung up, I’m sure, but the process of extraction can be improved upon. This is not something a state can handle while they’re fussing over every single citizen crying from their fright.” 

Napoleon had learned by that time to let Victoria finish her monologues. He’d enjoyed a bite of his meal until she raises an eyebrow at him, giving him the cue to speak. “Are you not at all worried by the fact that there are apparent aliens attacking our shores? Killing dozens if not hundreds?” 

Victoria had let out a dignified laugh. “There is always something, Solo. Are you not worried about the warlords I sell weapons to? Are you not at all worried about the cruelness of the men you steal from, their treasures made at the hands of suffering workers? No, I am not worried. I see an opportunity in the state of the world and make it something that enriches me, as do most people with a sense of ambition. You are not exempt.” 

“Please,” Napoleon had said, gesturing pointedly with his fork to his ravioli. “Don’t remind me of what horrid creature I’ve become, I’m trying to eat here.” 

Napoleon comes to when the Hound grunts besides him, motioning to the black car door of the limousine the Hound had inexplicably ushered them into. Napoleon slides out of the carseat, stretching when he stands on the cobblestoned streets besides their destination. While the Hound handles paying their driver, Napoleon looks around casually. The hotel the Hound directed the driver to is a familiar one. He’s stayed here before, but never with Victoria. He wonders what that means. 

“Go,” the Hound barks. 

Napoleon turns to him, molding his surprise into light confusion. “You’re not coming along? And I just thought we’d become such good friends.” 

The Hound glares at him. He walks towards the door and stands besides it like a particularly grumpy bouncer. 

“You know, if I wanted to run I’d just go via the back,” Napoleon informs him, “so I don’t know what this is exactly doing for you.” 

The Hound just stares ahead with his arms crossed. Napoleon gives up on getting anything out of him and against pushes through the rotating doors into the Hotel. 

“Have fun!” Napoleon tells him with a smile just before the doors slam shut, trying to pretend his heart isn’t stuck in his throat. Victoria’s plans remain a mystery. The Hound has been menacingly tight-lipped about the whole thing, though there isn’t really any other way that the Hound exists. 

The lobby is much like how he remembers it, if a bit worse for wear. The heavily accented walls recall the Renaissance with lavish murals and faux pillars, but it does all seem to need a new lick of paint. One of the desk lamps on a coffee table is flickering slightly, and the ambient music sounds like it’s coming from further away, as if only one speaker survived the passage of time and no one got around to replacing the others. 

The room seems clean though, and there is a half-full coffee on the desk, steaming a little with heat. The only thing missing is a person behind the desk. 

Napoleon decides to wait and sits on the love seat to the side of the room, eager to draw this out as long as he can. But then he notices a young woman in uniform asleep in the corner of the room, her office chair just hidden by the large fake plants behind the desk. 

Her silky black hair frames her face attractively. Before, Napoleon would take that as an incentive to up the charm. He feels the script almost push through the back of his mind towards his mouth, but with one shake of his head it falls away. He finds himself more worried about the dark stains of exhaustion below her eyes than anything else. He chooses to let her sleep for another minute, though he cannot dawdle for too long. It would make the Hound — and in extension Victoria — suspicious. 

His novel but refreshing charity is ruined by the arrival of a bustling middle aged woman carrying a bag and three suitcases— one of which she drops with a slam on the marble floor. 

“Oh I’m so sorry!” the woman exclaims, bringing her hand up to her mouth in horror. The movement sends the bag in her hand flying and the contents spill out, including a set of wine glasses that break apart, pieces gliding all across the room. 

The young woman jumps up from her desk chair and Napoleon can just see the look of pure exhaustion on her face before a mask of friendly customer service covers it. Napoleon shudders in sympathy; the girl needs a break and a drink, though not necessarily in that order. 

Spurred on by the look on her face, Napoleon raises from his seat, helping the receptionist clean up the mess while the middle aged woman fusses around unhelpfully, keeping up a stream of apologetic comments. 

Napoleon takes the chance to read her name tag and says, “I think this is the last of it, Simone. Can you tell me where I can throw it away?” 

“I’ll take it,” she replies with a smile that seems more genuine than the one she sends the woman. “Thank you, sir.” 

“No need,” Napoleon says, waving her off. He finds himself smiling without intending to and a burst of warmth flows through his chest. It feels good to do something nice without an ulterior reason, he realises. He doesn’t linger on the fact that it’s quite telling he’s only realising now. “I just thought I could help you out.” 

“It’s appreciated,” Simone says, and Napoleon doesn’t miss the way her gaze passes over him, lingering on his face. “I’ll take care of this and then I’ll be able to help you.” She smiles again, wider this time, and Napoleon feels the script push up again. He knows how to handle this— what to say. A flirtatious grin paired with a subtly lewd comment, lean closer but not too far. Do not intimidate, but intimate, push and pull temptation until the _catch—_

Napoleon shakes his head, eyes falling down to the floor as to avoid her gaze. “No hurry.” 

Simone chuckles, airy and light. “I will anyway.” 

Stumped, Napoleon wanders towards the desk to wait until she returns. The woman is still behind him, rummaging through what’s left of her belongings, but even her muttering doesn’t distract Napoleon from his circling thoughts. He feels off balance, and when Simone comes back and touches his arm to catch his attention, he nearly flinches back. 

“So,” Simone says intimately. “What may I help you with?” 

Napoleon swallows. His mind feels sluggish, unpracticed. If he doesn’t get his act together soon, this will become more embarrassing than it already is. Even if he’d been able to speak at all, he’s drawing a complete blank on what to say. What does Victoria want from him? Does he have a room here, or is it something else? 

In the end, the woman saves him, when she exclaims “I found it!” so loudly that it bounces off the walls with an echo. 

They both turn at the sound and see her brandish some papers in the air, waving it like a flag. 

“My reservations,” the woman clarifies, noticing them with a blink of beady eyes. She rushes to the desk, a suitcase almost falling again if it weren’t for Napoleon’s fast reflexes. “See,” she says to Simone, insistent, “I’ve got them right here.” 

There is a flash of annoyance on Simone’s face, quickly pushed away as she says, “I’ll look at them in a second. I’m—“ 

“No, not to be worried. I don’t mind waiting a bit. I’ve got time,” Napoleon interrupts her. “I need a trip to the washroom anyway, do you mind pointing in the right direction?” 

Simone’s smile twitches down a bit, but she nods. “That way, to the left. It shouldn’t take too long, my apologies for the delay.” 

“No need,” Napoleon tells her. “My choice.” 

He walks away before he can see her response to that. 

The bathroom door creaks when Napoleon pushes through it, and the little metal silhouette of a man wearing a top head tilts even further to the right at the sudden movement. Napoleon lets the door slam shut behind him and ignores the tinkle of metal against marble when the silhouette inevitably falls. He walks to the row of sinks and leans over it, catching a deep breath. He avoids looking in the mirror for a moment, instead his eyes glaze over his hands— his cuff has ridden up enough to show a faint hint of pink around his wrist, the indentations of the chains not yet fully healed up. Napoleon sucks in another breath. Too quick. Dizzy and with shaking hands he reaches for the tap and splashes water in his face. 

It helps, a bit. The cold is a shock to his system and resettles him back into the now. Enough to realise that the water is chalky and brings a sour taste to his lips. Napoleon turns the tap off and tries another until he finds one where the water seems a little less dodgy. He doesn’t dare to drink it though, and the sensation of thirst brings him right back to the cellar. 

One more breath. Two. He’s got to get his shit together. He shakes his head sharply, droplets splashing over the mirror. He still doesn’t look up. 

Napoleon stands there for God knows how long, though it can’t be more than a few minutes because his back starts to ache for staying in one position for too long, which usually happens around the two minute mark. 

Footsteps pass besides the door. Napoleon tenses, making pain flare through his body. The door doesn’t open as the person keeps walking, but Napoleon’s heart keeps beating like he’s on the run. He shakes himself and starts to look for a towel just for something to do. He finds one under the counter— surprisingly clean and actually soft — and dries himself off as much as he can. 

But after that there is nothing but the rush in his ears, the pounding of his heart and the horrifying realisation that he has no idea how to deal with this. He’s so used to running. Distracting himself with the dangers of the hunt, but he doesn’t fucking want to anymore and no one has explained to him how to keep himself from falling apart while remaining still. 

There is a flash of memory. 

Illya standing besides the desk in their room— _Illya’s_ room — his hands clenched around the edge and his breath coming rugged and fast. Napoleon remembers feeling helpless. He’d been debating touching Illya’s shoulder for the better part of a minute but he doesn’t know if that would _help. _Then the breaths suddenly turn regular— calculated, and Napoleon notices a hum coming from Illya’s lips. Russian numbers in a sing song rhythm, counting to 8 and back again. 

Napoleon comes back to himself, the towel crushed between his fists. His lungs have taken off again, aching and pulsing, but the melody sticks. After a few repetitions the need to breathe comes more naturally and the urge to escape lessens to a nagging background whisper, one Napoleon is used to ignoring. 

The sound of the room returns to him again, and Napoleon huffs when he realises he’d never turned of the last tap. He does so, satisfied that his hands are no longer shaking. Then his stomach rumbles loudly which sends him into a bark of laughter— a bit too desperate maybe but it still counts. He notes to himself that low sugar levels lead to more crisis and takes one of the mints some hotels inexplicably leave in the bathrooms. 

He’s about to walk back through the door when he realises he actually came here to do something. He still has no solution to this riddle Victoria threw at him— and a riddle it is. Victoria lives her life in games and tests, and she expects Napoleon to complete them. So it must be something he would assume about her, but not something too obvious to not be amusing to her. 

He’s been at this hotel before under the name Solo, but this would be too on the nose. She’s already gloated with that particular ‘secret’ for years now, and the hotel itself isn’t that much of a reveal either. After the consequences of their disastrous first encounter, Napoleon had assumed that she had tracked down his whereabouts around that time, this hotel being one of them. 

She has proven that she knows more about him than he would like. She’s shown that she’s confident in her ability to collect his secrets. She’s saved him after escaping her grasp — be it with her permission — by tracking his every move by the very deal that gave him his freedom. She’s trying to tell him that— 

Oh. Of course. 

Napoleon straightens out his collar and walks back to the desk. He barely registered the curious look Simone sends him. He just leans forward and says, “May I have the key for a room on the name Vinciguerra?” 

Simone smiles and nods, her fingers running over her keyboard and nodding once more. “Room 31, third floor. The penthouse, that’s an amazing choice.” 

“I’ve heard,” Napoleon says, attempting to keep the bitter amusement out of his voice. He was right, but solving Victoria’s puzzles do not always lead to victorious circumstances. 

She opens a little antique closet and grabs the key. It’s large and golden, the label hanging off of it made of heavy leather. The back of Napoleon’s mind cannot help but register that it would be an annoying thing to steal and intentionally so. Those kinds of labels tend to get stuck in a mark’s pocket, making it harder to take it in a single brush of hands. 

“Here you have it,” Simone says, passing the key over the desk. “The room has already been paid in advance for one night, but you can always extend your stay. Oh, and there is a note here… Yes. The bath has been drawn as requested, I hope it’s still to your preference despite the delay.” 

Napoleon nods like he expected that one and in a way he did. There is always another puzzle. 

Simone steps a bit closer again, her smile sly. “I’m supposed to tell you that our kitchens carry breakfast, lunch and dinner, but you’ve been such a help, you deserve to know the truth. Half of our staff has left inland, so if you want good food, I can show you a few bistros with owners who stubbornly refuse to leave, granting us with delicious dinner despite everything.” 

Napoleon forces himself to chuckle and smile. He says, “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” 

He turns, suppressing the urge to rush up the stairs. He almost fails when Simone calls after him: 

“Have a nice stay, Mr Vinciguerra.” 

Chills rise up over his spine. It feels like Victoria is watching, somehow, with that amused look of hers, the one that makes you doubt if she wants to kill you, or if she wants you to kneel. 

Napoleon opens the door of his hotel room, the steam of the bath coming through the gap below the ensuite’s door and it doesn’t escape his notice as he starts to undress himself, that one way or another, he is doing the latter. 

But that isn’t anything new. 

Napoleon schucks of his clothes and steps into the hot air, trying to remember that this will be the last time. He knows these games— enjoyed them even, because you have to if you want to survive — but now he finally has the chance to finish them for good. He places his phone carefully on the bedside table, knowing he has an ace up his sleeve. He has an ally, formed a team Victoria doesn’t know about, instead of one she keeps in stringent control. 

He shakes off the last of his doubts; he needs to step back into a role once more. It’s hard, the resistance within himself pushing heart back to a hurried pattern, but Napoleon finds solace in the fact that it takes effort. As long as the act doesn’t slide around him like a skin, it means that it’s not truly him. It’s so much easier to distinguish himself now while feeling the ache of pretending. 

As Napoleon dips his hand in the water to test the heat, he realises that he’s felt like this before. 

In Russia there had been a time when Vincenzo had felt like carving a space within his mind and festering there. Back when Illya’s interest in him became deeper than the fleeting attraction he’d been aiming for. Illya’s regard for him was obvious and Napoleon was torn apart by the knowledge that he’d manipulated this precious person into believing he was worth that. 

Napoleon doesn’t know when that changed, when being Vincenzo stopped feeling like torture and became more like an indulgence, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it when he’s dragged mercilessly back to reality. 

He catches himself in the mirror. 

First, numbly, he notes that there must a coating of something on the glass to keep it from fogging up. Secondly, there is another mirror hanging on the opposite side of the wall, allowing him to view himself completely. Then his eyes catch on the mangled excuse of a back. 

It isn’t the first time he’s seen his reflection since Bug went to town on him, but it is the first time completely sober, and definitely the first time he’s seen the totality of the scars. There is no medication softening the blow of his pathetic stature, and Napoleon almost laughs at himself, if he could move at all. 

His face has healed up nicely, so clad in a suit no one would be the wiser about the rampage underneath. But here, naked and trembling, Napoleon has to accept that this time, he’ll have lasting marks. The edges of skin are still red in parts, but even where it has healed, it ends up looking disgusting. When he breathes he can see the pull and stretch, parts of his skin tense and inflexible. There are harsh lines of the whip where the edges have risen up, leaving ridges all over his lower back. With a shaking hand, Napoleon reaches out to touch it, and almost throws up when the scars are almost silky to the touch. Some of them rise off his skin half a finger thick, and Napoleon wonders if anyone would ever want to touch him again. 

The scars aren’t the only problem though. He’s lost weight, both fat and muscles. His ribs are not completely sticking out but they’re more visible than they’ve been since he was a lanky teenager. Here too the skin holds marks and scrapes, but the colour of it sickens Napoleon the most. Even in the heat of the bathroom, it’s greyish, unhealthy, like a part of him is still stuck in that lightless basement. He does realise that he only leaves his body uncovered for the shower now, electing to hide it all away whenever he can. 

Even at a younger age, his body had been the way Napoleon survived. He did not need to keep up with his peers’ social life, because his looks were enough for them to tolerate him in their circles. He did not need to beg for respect of his father’s friends, because all of them saw the potential of a handsome face at their beck and call. From old ladies to naive girls, Napoleon’s smile and body had been the turning point of a job often enough. 

It never got too far— his father had an unhealthy hatred for what he called ‘the sluts of the street’ and would never have allowed his son to sell himself, not even for a job. No. That came later. 

As much as Napoleon needed his quick wit to charm a mark, he also needed the appearance to carry it with, and this— this just isn’t that. 

It almost seems impossible to think that this body was the same Illya had touched— Illya had loved. It’s almost insane to imagine his hands on his back, not marred with scars, pulling him in, pushing them closer and closer—

Napoleon hisses through his breath, torn by a stream of memories rushing through the disgust and fear still prominent in his mind. He shakes his head, trying to get all of it to _stop. _

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need his body anymore— not like that. He only needs it to function, and it does. He is alive. There is no reason to want it to be different. There is no one to show it to. He doesn’t need it to be his armour anymore. 

And besides, Illya won’t ever see it anyway, so what’s the difference. 

Napoleon goes over the rationale again and again until he almost convinces himself. He lowers himself into the bath, letting the water lap around his body and cover him whole. He submerges his head, and tries, desperately, not to think. 

The heat around him is overwhelming for a moment, but he gets used to it quickly as his skin flushes red. Napoleon takes a deep breath and goes under again. It’s a brief respite from the world; as the water courses through his ear and makes sound an abstraction, Napoleon finds to space to rest. The water drains more than just the filth of his skin, it also draws the past weeks to the surface and lets them drift away. Shoddy motel showers and towel washes in gas-station toilets are the way to lose your sense of sanity right quick— Napoleon’s penchant for luxury does not merely come from ambition; luxury hotels are sure in their care and take all steps to make their guests feel at home. 

Napoleon grabs a lavender body gel and washes the panic-sweat of the last 20 minutes away. Reality returns to him slowly as he erases the remaining signs of his emotional outburst, drowning the previous uncertainty and regaining confidence with every breath. Of course, he should not be naive and believe that this is the end of it. He’s an exposed nerve and he feels it, but it’s good to know that there are small ways that make him feel human again. 

It’s in this relative calm that Napoleon is interrupted by a ring. At first he thinks it’s Muse calling him, but his phone is charging in the bedroom and this sounds closer—

Across from him Napoleon sees a small screen mounted on the wall. It looks like an expensive TV, but apparently it has more than one function because it’s showing in large white letters: _Caller ID: UNKNOWN requesting video call. _

For a split second Napoleon hesitates— there is no doubt in his mind about who is calling, but is he going to just give in? Modesty is usually a concept Napoleon doesn’t worry himself with, but with the scars he feels exposed. The wisps of white bubbles floating on the surface leave some things to the imagination, but Victoria is going to turn her head when she orders him to get to work. This is as much a show of power that the name was, but this is the one she’s going to be suspicious of for Napoleon to rebel against. His disgruntlement at the discard of his privacy had always been more around her eagle eye on all his actions than her gaze on his body while he changed. Even when he began to loathe being her puppet, her obvious appreciation of the physical remained low on the list of resentment— both because he knew he was worthy of such interest, and because this was the one domain she had not manipulated him into crossing. All their short-lived affairs were by his own choice, as much as he regretted them the morning after. 

Napoleon has all these thoughts dizzyingly quick, but time is running out. This too is a choice, but it isn’t his own. He’d promised Muse to act along for both of their sakes, so the only question that matters now is this: what would he have done before Russia? 

Napoleon sighs, leans out, and taps _Accept_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I'm sorry for the change in format. I'm just very busy and I don't wanna push through editing this thing every other week just to get it done, instead of enjoying the story and such. Also its pretty demotivating to get no to barely any response, which I totally get bc everyone is busy as hell, but at some point I gotta think about my happiness and stuff, and atm posting just makes me sad ya feel. So I'd much rather just get this thing done in one go, than be sad every two weeks. But really, I'm not trying to guilt yall or something. I totally understand being busy, I haven't been anything but lmao. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter and I'm sorry that it will take a sec until the next. I might be posting other ficlets or whatever in the meantime because I still got that posting craving, and such. And thank you for all y'alls support so far!


	10. Favoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needs to contact Muse before he loses himself all over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAAALLLLLLL I'm probably gonna make a big emotional Tumblr post later and/or ramble in the last chapter notes. But we've made it!! I've returned from my hiatus with a finished fic and I'm going to post all 8 fucking chapters today <3 Thank you so much for staying with this series all this time.  
This is literally my bday present to myself, so happy bday To Me and fucking hell, I got it done on time!

With a slight flicker of the screen, Victoria’s pristine smile springs into view. Napoleon leans back, regarding her for a moment. It has been a while, but Victoria hasn’t changed in these months. She hasn’t in all the years Napoleon has known her, as if time just slides off her porcelain skin. She’s dashed out in full, as usual— a colour scheme of soft purples and a deep black. Her dark nails a stark contrast against her dusty pink cheeks. 

She regards him back in turn, her eyes scanning like she can see his bones and is judging them for their quality. She meets his gaze, just… watching him. 

Napoleon clears his throat. 

“My apologies,” he says, “I’m afraid I didn’t have the time to make myself decent, as you seemed eager to speak to me.” 

Victoria purses her lips and blinks, breaking the tense current of their stare. “I wished to see how well you’ve recovered,” she says. “You’ve gone through much since we last saw each other.” 

Napoleon lowers himself a little more into the water. He tries not to sound defensive when he says, “We all have battle scars.” 

She doesn’t respond to that, her eyes tracking his movements until she leans back in her seat. “He’s been taken care of?” 

Napoleon narrows his eyes— there is something in her voice that he can’t place — but nods, unsure. “Bug? Yeah, the Hound got him in the brains. In my experience, that’s not something you can come back from.” 

There is the sound of paper rustling, and Victoria holds a beautiful pen with golden lacings, crossing something out that Napoleon can’t see. 

“About that, actually,” Napoleon says, when the silence stretches a little too long. “Forgive me for not believing the Hound was just in the neighbourhood. You’re not exactly known for charity, so what’s the favour you’ve brought me in for?”

Victoria raises an eyebrow. “_The_ favour? I feel we’ve passed the threshold of one favour, have we not? I saved your life.” 

The air turns ice cold. Napoleon takes a deep breath, hands tensing underneath the weak protection that the bath water gives him. “I did not ask you to save me,” he says in a flat voice. The rush of anger that flows behind is only just kept inside— he has to keep the role, but he’s _not_ letting her draw him back into her web with talk of debts. _He did not asked to be saved. _He’s not going to fall for this again. 

Victoria’s eyes widen in surprise, her nails framing her face in thought. “Are you suggesting you’d rather be dead?”

_Fuck. _Napoleon swallows and pushes a hand through his hair. He feels constricted by the need to fucking run, combined with the increasing pressure of the shaky plan he’s spun. 

“No,” he says, his mind searching frantically for something to say. “I’m suggesting that we table this discussion for when it’s relevant.”Time is what he needs. Time is what Muse needs. His chest loosens a bit and he’s able to lean back and continue with a flippant edge, “We’ll fight about favours when this one is done. For all I know I’ll die trying.” 

“Hmm,” Victoria says, calculating. “A delayed discussion… by your request. Have your experiences taught you patience?”

Napoleon smiles, sharper now— frustration is allowed. Frustration she’s used to. “Believe me Victoria,” he says darkly. “I’m anything but patient at the moment. So, let’s cut to the chase. What do you want from me.” 

“Get out of the bath,” Victoria says, and motions her head past him. “Open the drawers beneath the sink, the bottom is false and hides a safe underneath.” 

Napoleon sighs and doesn’t even try to maintain his modesty. He leaves the relative comforting blanket of warmth for the chill of the bathroom. He turns his back to her, listening intently for Victoria’s response, but whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t make it known. 

Napoleon opens small closet beside the bath first, but realises quickly that there are no towels anywhere. 

“Really, Victoria?” he asks, looking at the screen with a resigned glare. “Aren’t we past these childish games?” 

Victoria doesn’t respond, merely maintains her serene smile. 

Napoleon walks towards the drawer, pushing his wet hair out of his face, and opens it. The false bottom is easily taken out, and reveals a sleek black metal surface. Napoleon recognises the build and made, the steel tumbler sporting the distinct golden numbers that form the combinations. 1959, he guesses, probably has been here since the build of the Hotel. 

“Would you be so kind as to tell me the code?” Napoleon asks.

“Have you lost your abilities so quickly?” Victoria retorts, but the question seems rhetorical because she adds, “You know the code. It is not one you’d forget.” 

Napoleon glares in the mirror, sure that Victoria can catch his expression. He closes his eyes and tries to think, despite the chaos of frustration and resignation Victoria so expertly creates within her subjects. What unforgettable code would fit in this game of hers? 

Ah. Of course. 

Napoleon turns the numbers until the safe gives a tell-tale click. “You know,” he says while pulling the door open. “This trip down memory lane almost makes me think you’ve missed me.” 

“I am merely reminding you where you belong,” Victoria says innocently, and it feels like nails scraping his spine. 

“Aren’t you always,” Napoleon sighs. Now opened, the safe reveals a stack of files, neatly labelled and organised in golden envelopes. Something shudders deep within Napoleon— a box of memories filed away long ago opens with a rush and yeah, Napoleon remembers. 

The golden gleam of the envelope is so familiar that Napoleon finds himself looking for the title that had been on the others. _Case file #321: The murder of Georgia Vinciguerra. _But there is nothing, only the ink of his imagination. 

Napoleon bites the inside of his cheek, picking one of the envelopes and trying not to recognize the similarities, instead focusing on the differences. These aren’t as heavy as the ones before, and no clinking of diamond rings accompanies the brush of papers inside. He opens the first and lets the contents spill on the sink’s surface. The papers are laminated, they do not soften in his wet hands, and Napoleon snorts quietly at Victoria’s tendency to think of every detail. 

Pushing the past away, Napoleon scans the contents of the files. There are pictures, dates and records, all in Italian, all seeming to focus around the comings and going of one man. Avanzo Petrolini. The man himself is shown unflatteringly in what looks like a mugshot. The tattoos on his face tell a tale of multiple stints in jail, and his teeth the tale of less-than-good hygiene. Some are replaced with golden versions, seeming to indicate some form of riches. His eyes are lined with age, but Napoleon reads a sharpness in them, more than a mafioso grunt would have. Despite his predicament, he carries a certain confidence that can only be born through leadership. 

Napoleon opens the second envelope, intrigued despite himself. It holds the same collection of information but focused around another subject. This time a woman faces him in the fist picture. She too is of an older age, but her muscled arms show she isn’t to be underestimated. Napoleon guesses late 50th’s, early 60’s, and by the grip of her gun some history in the army. There are no mugshots; instead all of them seemed to have been made without her knowledge. She almost always has at least one weapon in her hands, and when she doesn’t she’s leaning over a table with a dozens of them. One of the photos shows her with a machine gun, her back facing the camera, and Napoleon spots a tattoo of an arctic fox. The pieces fall together. This is the White Fox, a weapon trader known to Victoria’s emporium. He’s never interacted with her personally, but has heard enough to know that the White Fox had been considered a good ally and trusted trader. Until now, it seems. 

Napoleon opens the last envelope and is surprised to find it almost empty. Only one page is revealed. There are no pictures, only the vague notes of a contract. A person by the code name of Eclipse was to help Uncle with a certain project. Napoleon recognises a few technical terms from what Jemaine revealed from Russia files, and he comes away with the impression that Eclipse is some sort of technician tasked with implementing a theoretical Nuclear Processor into a working prototype. 

When he’s done with reading, he puts them back in their respective envelopes and turns back to Victoria. “Why are you giving me files of your people?” 

Victoria’s eyes flash. “They are not my people. They are suspects.” 

She leans forward and Napoleon experiences the strange phenomenon of witnessing Victoria’s anger while it’s not directed at him. She’s livid. 

“Suspects?” Napoleon says. “Of what?” 

“The scientist has been taken,” Victoria says. “There is a mole in my organisation, and you’re going to find them.” 

Napoleon’s stomach drops. 

“Someone betrayed me,” Victoria continues, voice pure ice. “I need to know who. I’m going to show the consequences of being disloyal to me. They will suffer, and you’ll be responsible for leading me to the perpetrator.” 

“You think one of these three kidnapped Uncle?” 

“Based on the information I’ve gathered, these are the most likely of suspects. But if they are not responsible, you’ll have to find the missing pieces and lead me to the one who is.” 

“I think vetting these three is enough, for now.” 

“You don’t understand, Solo. If I am wrong and the mole is not within the files I gave you, you must find me my mole. Otherwise, I have to assume that I am looking at the mole, right… now.” 

Napoleon barks a laugh. “If you already suspect me, how will you trust my investigation?” 

“Let me be the judge of that. You’ll be given an earpiece connected to me. You’ll be expected to wear it at all times and respond whenever I call upon you. We’ll work closely together, just like old times.” 

Napoleon is going to be looking for someone who has drawn Victoria’s wrath while being under constant suspicion of subterfuge. The only difference is that this time, he _is_ a mole. Just not the one who made Uncle disappear. Napoleon sighs. “Just like old times.” 

———

Muse must know something has gone wrong. Napoleon had assumed that Victoria has eyes and ears everywhere, so he hadn’t dared to call her in the hotel. But after he’d dressed and shaken off the chill that comes interaction with Victoria, the Hound had immediately cornered him and pushed the earwig in his hand. Unable to refuse, Napoleon had capitulated, and contacting Muse had been impossible ever since. 

So instead of their daily calls, Napoleon’s only companion had been Victoria’s voice at every time of the day— even at night. She’d been persistent with her command of constant updates, the mic open more often than not. For the first few hours Napoleon had felt like he was in juvie— no privacy, surveillance on every corner, judgement on every face— but he adjusted quickly, getting used to the soft static of the mic and the intake of breath that precedes Victoria’s remarks. 

“Napoleon,” Victoria says. She sounds a bit tired— they’ve been working deep into the night, trying to find a pattern in Petrolini’s behaviour the last six months. Victoria had been online for the entire time, answering questions about Petrolini’s place in her organisation that the files had left out, and the long hours apparently started to have effect. It is rare to witness a break in Victoria’s ever present composure. 

“What are you thinking?” she asks. 

Napoleon yawns. “I think the record books are the wrong place to look. Everything seems completely clean, which is suspicious because no criminal has this good of an accountant except if they’re hiding something.” 

Victoria hums. “So you agree with my assessment that a more interactive approach will procure more results? It isn’t like you to avoid a chance to play thief.” 

“I assume you’ve noticed the— gifts of my journey in Serbia,” Napoleon says. “I am not avoiding, I am being practical. My usual tactics include the possibility of being unclothed, as you know, and the scars raise questions.” 

“Questions a man of your caliber can’t twist into some heroic fantasy?” Victoria asks. “A ex-soldier, a CIA-agent, a survivor of an attempted murder. You could play any of these beautifully.” 

The compliment seems genuine, strangely. Napoleon looks at the clock. 3AM. They’ve been at it for eight hours, and the rumble of his stomach reminds him that he hasn’t had any dinner. He wonders if Victoria is in the same state, and if that explains her uncharacteristic behaviour. Or maybe that’s not completely true— there had been a time where Victoria had been more than the beautiful monster she became. There had been a time when those strange moments of softness had been less than rare, directed at him. 

Napoleon’s stomach rolls, and he pretends it’s the hunger. He yawns again. “Is sleep deprivation a part of the favour?” 

Victoria gives an amused huff. “I think we’re done for tonight, if you promise me you’ll entertain the notion of infiltrating his compound.” 

“Fine,” Napoleon says, sighing. “I’ll think about it.” 

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” Victoria says. “Good night.” 

“Good night.” 

She clicks off and Napoleon’s world reorients itself in the complete silence. There is no static or gentle voice breaking up the oppressive nothing around him. He’s in an abandoned office building the Hound had rigged up with wifi before he disappeared to do god knows what. 

Napoleon had been alone with Victoria’s voice ever since, and now three days later, in the silence she left behind, Napoleon comes to the sickening realisation that he hadn’t felt alone all that time. The darkness of isolation that drove him into Serbia in the first place had been completely consumed by Victoria’s constant presence. Even Muse’s daily calls had not been enough to drive away the lingering sense of abandonment, but Victoria had, once again. 

Because despite her manipulation and her horrid treatment of him and those around him, she is someone who knows Napoleon so thoroughly. There will always be a part of him that _needs _that. 

Napoleon places his head in his hand and groans. He hates her, he fucking hates her, but somehow it’s becoming easy to forget. With her orders comes clarity, and he’s made such a mess of it. Maybe it would be a relief to just fall back into this, exchange his freedom for a presence, his agency for being known. 

Napoleon shudders. He feels sick. Sick with himself, and sick at the power Victoria still has over him. It isn’t about debt or favours anymore; this is about him falling back into habits he thought he had broken. He has to accept that a part of him still longs for the stability Victoria granted him for so many years, and he has nothing to replace it with, only the deep, dark need to escape. But escaping is just another path to isolation and the unknown, and a part of Napoleon doubts if he can handle that. If it isn’t better just to give in. 

He needs to contact Muse before he loses himself all over again. 

Napoleon sits up and carefully takes his earwig out. His only hope is that Victoria is so tired that she won’t check his presence for the coming hours, nor listen in on conversations he’s having. The burner phone is still in a hidden compartment in his bag, inside a rolled up sock. Napoleon takes it and sees that he has three voice mails from a blocked number. He hadn’t even dared to look at the phone with Victoria all around him. 

He pauses for a moment, looking at the phone. Hesitating. It feels like any moment the rug is going to be pulled from under him, but the earwig remains silent on the desk. 

Napoleon listens to the first voicemail. _Last known location of your highness idiocy is in Venice. V is not near, so either long distance contact, or something else. Forgot to clue me in?_

Muse sounds frustrated, but there is a hint of worry underneath her voice. He’s missed call-ins before, mostly due to the looming presence of the Hound during their backpacking escape through eastern Europe, so there is no reason to assume emergency for one day. But more than three? 

He selects the second voice mail. _I am assuming you’re not dead, first of all. Secondly I’m assuming that the bitch has to do with your sudden silence. Contact me through the forum if you can. If you don’t tomorrow, I’ll have to choose drastic measures. _

Napoleon nods and selects the last one. He hadn’t been able to even if he’d known. The new laptop the Hound left him definitely has some spyware on it, if the lag has anything to say about it. The other laptop had been left behind in their escape. 

The last voicemail is two words. _Lucca. Stormwind. _

Napoleon frowns. Lucca seems like a name, but it isn’t one he recognises, though it does sound familiar. Stormwind also sounds familiar— Napoleon wracks his tired brain until an answer rises to the surface:

It was the codename for a job he’d done with Muse before the rest of the team had joined in— before there had even been a team. It was when he’d mostly worked alone or with Victoria, only interacting with others in the organisation at Victoria’s orders. The new hacker she’d rounded up had to be worked in and tested, and Stormwind had been the first operation Napoleon had worked with Muse face to face. 

Why is Muse reminding him of that old job? Does she mean they have to meet face to face? She’s still at the Office, presumably, and if the team was suspicious with phone calls then they’ll surely be if she disappears completely. Napoleon tries to remember the details of the job. It had to have something to do with databases or digital security, Muse’s specialities. 

It had been back when he’d thought he would be able to do some good, here and there, to balance out the bad. How wrong he’d been.

Why did Muse want him to think of this? What does it have to do with Lucca? 

Napoleon decides to take his own advice and go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will bring more clarity, or Muse will leave him another voice mail. It isn’t safe to call Muse; Victoria must have ways to listen in. And though he could try a text, he doesn’t know what Muse is planning to do, doesn’t know if the line is secure. His best bet is waiting for more information, or figuring out the hints she gave him. He goes to bed feeling empty, but sure of his decision. 

Whatever happens, he’s not going to put Muse in more risk. 

———

There is no voicemail the next day, or the following. The Hound comes back and leaves again.

Victoria remains a presence looking digitally over his shoulder with soft commands and quick judgements. With her words come the doubts. Maybe Muse gave up and decided that saving Napoleon wasn’t worth the risk. It wouldn’t surprise him. 

Napoleon doesn’t use the forum. He tries to tell himself it's to protect her, but it's a thinly veiled excuse, even to himself. He doesn’t want the confirmation. Doesn’t want to know if he’s all alone. If Victoria is all that's left for him. 

And Victoria is diligent, all encompassing. It’s almost like she’s here, beside him for every step, in the same ethereal way Illya had been in the basement. The similarity makes Napoleon shudder. He tries not to think about it. 

As they work together their conversations range from the investigation to their tumultuous past. Napoleon is never able to steer the conversation away from the depths of his psyche, as if Victoria has the blueprints he has lost. 

She notices when he hesitates. When he doubts himself. She’s there when he has nightmares. When he has flashbacks to Bug’s basement. 

She’s there, always. 

An hour before Napoleon is supposed to charm his way into Petrolini’s compound, Victoria pauses mid sentence. 

“You are afraid,” she says. Her voice brooks no argument. “You are afraid you cannot do this, that is why you’ve been avoiding it.” 

Denial would only spur her on, but confirming would take too much of Napoleon’s pride. He keeps silent instead. 

“Oh Napoleon,” Victoria says softly, instead of the mocking Napoleon braced for. “It’s alright. You have made many mistakes since Russia, you have been lost ever since you left your team, since you left me. Did you really think you were ready to be alone? Do you not remember what you were when I found you?” 

Napoleon grabs the table, words stuck in his throat. He feels more naked than he had in the bath. 

“It is not a weakness to need allies. It is not a weakness to work better together, not if they make you better, if they are worthy of you. You have not lost your abilities. You are Napoleon Solo. Believe this.” 

“You know nothing,” Napoleon snaps. “You don’t know me. You never have.”

“I know you, because I know myself.” 

Napoleon snorts. “If you are implying that we are the same in any way you’re doing yourself a disservice.” 

“Don’t try to fool me in this, dear. You recognised yourself in me, just as I did in you. You thought you could outsmart me because of this, you wanted to prove yourself against yourself, or the closest thing there was. And later, when I proved to be better than you, you knew we’d be unstoppable together.” 

The sudden intensity in Victoria’s voice catches Napoleon off guard. She sounds earnest in a way that sounds alien to her, and though Napoleon expects a ploy, he cannot help but be drawn in. 

“I recognized the criminal in you, Napoleon,” she says. “You were taught for this world just as I was. Given a birthright. I inherited a syndicate, and you were given the long road of the conman and thief, a road you made your own— made better. Your talent is rare and unique, and to see you waste it has you have done since you left me...” 

Napoleon swallows. He tries to get a word out—to protest. For her to imply that she ever cared about him more than one of the pieces she owned on her criminal chessboard is more than insulting. And yet a part of him gasps for it. Like how he had hesitated to push Jemaine away, for just a moment. He knows its an illusion, but he wants it, desperately, just for a second of respite. 

Victoria continues in his silence.

“Our birth right is both a blessing and a curse. We learn the secrets of the world, but while we do, we are removed from regular society from a young age. We learn the way of our family above the way of friends. We give up normalcy for our legacy. We do not learn how to be ordinary, we can only pretend. This is the difference between us, Napoleon. We handle this rift in completely opposite ways.” She gives a sigh that could have been fond, but corrupted in a way Napoleon can’t explain. “You respond by closing off. You try to become more and more independent while hungering for intimacy. The distance bothers you, pains you, and you try to run from it.” 

Napoleon is frozen. Her voice is like a waterfall; ice cold and enveloping; graceful yet so powerful a current that he can’t raise a hand, much less gasp for breath. 

“I’ve learned to use it. I’ve learned not to need the connection you so long for. I don’t waste my time with the ordinary, I collect the extraordinary. I don’t need them to understand me, I just need them to obey. But I believe you can learn this— you have done, in moments, with Thomas and Jemaine. But the control you have over them scares you, and you do know that they will not ever know you, understand you,_ love you_.” 

How can someone like her understand him so precisely. What secrets did he betray in her presence? Or does she speak the truth: can she see him from within because she sees herself within him. What does that say about Napoleon?

“We are both broken in the same way, Napoleon,” Victoria tells him gently, almost like she can hear the questions tumbling through his muddled mind. “Our youth made ruins out of us, exactly moulded to the purpose our peers needed out of us. But I make this my power, and I’ve been trying to cultivate you to do the same. For you to accept what you are, and not try to fight it any longer. If you need someone to understand you, to love you. You know, deep down, that I’ll be the closest you’ll ever get.” 

Napoleon takes a shuddering breath. Her words seem damning, set in stone, and while he wishes he could take them out of her mouth and fling them into the dirt, a larger part of him is hooked, like an addict, waiting for more to come. 

“And dear Napoleon, I would, for you. I would cross that distance, and try to feel for you what you so desperately need. And maybe, _just maybe_, I wouldn’t be pretending.” 

Victoria pauses for a moment, the silence stretching between them that seems almost intimate. When she breaks it, it’s to tell him sweetly, like a lover: “I see you, Napoleon. I know you. I know who you are. So you’ll come back to me when you’re lost. I know you will. Because we are one. We’ll always be.”

Napoleon sways, dizzy with confusion. A flush comes to his cheeks and he does not know if it’s shame, hatred, or something else, something that proves that she’s right. 

The Hound enters the building at that exact moment and barks that they have to go. Victoria must hear it through the comms because she switches to another channel, their conversation abruptly put to an end. She’s mid-sentence when Napoleon gets the wherewithal to switch his earpiece over to the shared channel. 

Victoria devolves into a repeat of their predetermined plans, her tone miles away from the warm intimacy it had before.

Victoria had sounded so— so genuine. So logical. Everything they ever had between them fits into a puzzle that makes so much sense. It gives an answer to everything Napoleon had torturing himself with— this is who he is. This is where he belongs. He is Victoria’s. Everything he ever accomplished was because of her—

No. _No. _

That was then. He can’t. He knows. He_ isn’t. _He isn’t hers. 

But god, how easy would it be. 

It’s terrifying, how easy. It solve all the problems he was running from. All the uncertainty, all the _loneliness_. Maybe if this is what she’d told him after Russia, he would have stayed. Or even later than that, when he was in America, lost in a golden monstrosity he wanted to belong to so badly. If she’d called him then, he would have ran back without thinking. He would have given himself away to _belong_. 

Napoleon doesn’t know what changed. Maybe it was Muse, giving him a hope that someone cared beyond selfishness. Maybe it was Bug showing him what this life leads to. Or it was Jemaine, revealing true love and true heartbreak within their relationship, and believing in a better version of Napoleon that deserved all this.

Maybe it was Illya, showing him that there is a life beyond suffering. Even if he’d ruined it, what he felt for Illya — still feels to this day — makes his relationship with Victoria feel like a dystopian parody of love. 

In any case, while Napoleon feels Victoria’s promises and platitudes thrumming underneath his skin, he can push them away and instead admire them for their manipulative core. Maybe Victoria believes what she says, but Napoleon knows now that he does not belong to a person. He has never belonged to her. 

Now he has to make sure that he stays that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, my beta is the fucking best for editing the last chapters on such short notice oh my god. Please feel free to ramble and comment and quote as much as you like. I've been missing yalls takes and ideas so much writing this alone <3


	11. Shadow

A consistent mantra repeats itself in the back of Napoleon’s mind, like a record stuck in a groove. _Play along, play along, play along. _

He tugs at his collar, the waiter’s uniform a little tight around his shoulders, but Victoria assured him smugly that it would only help the cause. 

The plan is simple. The morning shift is about to start and Napoleon is playing the part of a transfer from an affiliated hotel, replacing a server with a broken leg. Petrolini has been staying at this hotel for the last month according to the reports and has been spotted with a silver briefcase that never leaves his side. Napoleon is supposed to swap the briefcase with the fake one laying in the trunk right now. Not only would it give them access to information Petrolini deems important enough to have on his person at all times, it also gives them a good way to track him if he’s spooked and tries to flee. 

It’s something Napoleon could have done with his eyes closed before Russia, maybe even before Bug, but now cold sweat pools down his neck and over his spine. His lips are dry and his hands threaten to tremble, so he tightens them around his knees. His companions in the car don’t seem to notice his distress. The Hound is driving on the edge of legality, staring stonily forward while conversing solely in grunts. The man riding shotgun is someone Napoleon hasn’t worked with before, but judging by his familiarity with the Hound’s grunted language, he guesses he’s one of Victoria’s closer crew. 

Napoleon swallows, trying to ignore the implications of Victoria sending her personal guards on this mission, and focuses instead on the conversation around him. There are two others beside him in the SUV. One of them has a small compact laptop on his lap, on which Victoria has called in. 

“Be done today,” she orders waspishly. “There has been a breach in Lucca. Either Petrolini has contacts beyond what I know of, or we have to turn to Eclipse.” 

_Lucca. _Napoleon’s attention shifts from a distraction to clear focus. 

“The White Fox is a mercenary,” the man holding the laptop argues bravely, though he looks slightly pale in the face of Victoria’s wrath. “She knows hackers, for sure.” 

Victoria’s eyes narrow. “How would you suggest we run this investigation then?” 

The man presses his lips together and keeps silent. Napoleon decides to cut the tension and grant the poor guy some mercy. 

“Forgive me for being wholly uninformed, but what exactly is Lucca?” he asks Victoria. 

Victoria’s eyes flicker to the side of his voice, but she can’t see him from the position of the webcam. It’s wondrously freeing. She seems reluctant to answer so Napoleon adds, “if I don’t know the significance, I cannot help you solve it.” 

Victoria’s jaw twitches but she says, “Lucca is one of the locations I maintain the servers of my organisation,” she says. “The mole has breached it, which, congratulations Napoleon, helps to confirm your innocence. The breach seemed to have happened two days ago, during which you have contacted no one besides me.” 

She sounds so confident that Napoleon saves a moment to be relieved he hadn’t tried to call Muse while under Victoria’s eye. But after that he’s reeling, trying to marry the new information with Muse’s hints. She’d threatened to use drastic measures, and hell, hacking Victoria’s personal databases surely makes the cut. 

It isn’t even the first time she’s done it, Napoleon remembers. She’d been flippant about it, hacking it while Napoleon was in Russia must have lead to some form of punishment. 

Which means that when the three suspects have been ruled out, she’ll join the list. Fuck. What is she doing? The other hint, the job, he wishes he could remember more details. Does she mean that she’s found the mole— if there even is one besides himself, or that she just hacked it for another reason?

Napoleon is at a loss, and his body is warring between ecstasy and worry. She’s putting herself in way too much danger, but at least she hasn’t given up on him. 

Napoleon straightens in his seat, half an ear on Victoria’s snapping orders and the rest of him filled with determination. The idea of pretending again makes his stomach turn in slow circles but it’s time to do his part— he’s not doing this for greed, not for Victoria, not even for himself. He must be the best motherfucking waiter he can be, for Muse. Because he cannot fuck this up while she’s working her ass off to get him out of this. 

Napoleon nods curtly at the Hound’s order to exit the car. The silver briefcase is pressed into his hands and he’s left alone at the back entrance of the hotel. The stench of garbage and frying-oil wafting from the kitchen window makes Napoleon wants to turn on his heel, but he presses on. The heavy door gives under his weight and within seconds he’s swept into the current of a hurried morning service. He barely has the time to put the briefcase somewhere he can access it later, before someone with a chef’s hat barks at him to get on with it. 

The static in his ear is only broken up two harsh hours into the shift. Napoleon has taken more breakfast orders than he can count and he’s never getting the smell of croissants out of his nose, but the organised chaos has the nice side effect of washing away all his nerves. He’s almost forgotten the reason to be here until Victoria’s voice shatters the illusion. 

“Petrolini on your six.” 

Napoleon looks around surreptitiously, smoothly turning the movement into taking dirty plates of a just abandoned table. Petrolini is coming of the stairs, scratching his backside and yawning. He’s wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and Napoleon swallows down his instinctive expression of disgust. 

“According to the staff,” Victoria says, “he’s gotten into the habit of swimming before breakfast.” 

“And doesn’t bother to dress afterwards?” Napoleon murmurs rhetorically. “Charming.” 

He adjusts his path to cross with Petrolini— better to be seen and familiarised than to be a strange face during the switch. 

“Good morning, monsieur,” Napoleon says graciously to Petrolini when he’s close enough. “There are enough tables free at the back for your choice. What would you like to drink this morning?” 

Petrolini stakes him out lazily, his yellow teeth showing in a half grin. “Orange juice, strained, none of those gross chunks.” His voice is like a rolling wave created by decades of tobacco smoke. 

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” Napoleon says, smiling. “I’ll be right back.” 

Petrolini grunts and uses the silver briefcase to nudge Napoleon out of his way. 

Napoleon turns to the kitchen but sidesteps into the jacket closet in the hallway. He sets the dirty plates on the floor and taps against his earwig to activate it. “Swimming before breakfast you said?” 

“I did,” Victoria replies.

“Well, it seems like he’s broken his habit today,” Napoleon says. “His hair was completely dry, and he doesn’t seem like the type to take the effort to hair-dry extensively. But he’s certainly wearing speedos underneath that offending bathrobe, so—“ 

“He’s still going to swim,” Victoria interrupts, catching Napoleon’s train of thought.

“The changing rooms seem like a perfect place to, say, lose sight of a briefcase for a few moments?” 

“Execute the adjustment,” Victoria orders, “I’ll inform the others of the delay. Good idea as usual, Solo.” 

“Copy,” Napoleon says, and taps the earwig again. He ignores the slight hint of pleasure that came with Victoria’s approval, and dives back into the chaos of kitchen. 

Petrolini takes an absurdly long time to finish his breakfast, ordering way too much for a man planning to swim afterwards. At the end Napoleon begins to worry that Petrolini’s changed his mind, but after the third glass of strained orange juice and the fifth ham and cheese croissant, he stands up and walks towards the door leading to the pool. 

Napoleon clocks out for a 15 minute break the majority of his ‘coworkers’ have already taken, and slinks toward the pool with the dummy briefcase in his hand. He lingers a bit in a janitor’s closet to give Petrolini time to settle into the water, and then enters via the staff entrance. 

Petrolini isn’t there. There is a chance he could be in a jacuzzi off to the side, but a quick walk past reveals that none of them are on, never mind taken. 

Napoleon waits for another moment, using the mop he stole from the closet as a cover, but after another two minutes, his curiosity gets the best of him. Petrolini either is having a very bad time on the toilet, or he’s slipped away from him. The window of opportunity is closing either way. 

He leaves the briefcase beside the door before opening it slowly, casting his eyes around for Petrolini. There are no stalls, just one open changing room with aluminium planks forming benches, so Napoleon realises quickly that Petrolini is nowhere to be seen. His bathrobe isn’t hanging from a hook and none of the toilets are in use. 

Napoleon is about to warn Victoria— Petrolini must have been tipped off somehow — when the slam of a door behind him makes him jump and turn. 

A figure covered completely in black rushes towards him, grabs him before Napoleon can even think to defend himself, and drags him towards the pool. 

“What— You—,” Napoleon grunts, struggling for control— and then remembers he’s supposed to be a waiter not a fighter. He takes a breath to yell but the attacker punches him in the abdomen, slamming the attempt out of him. 

Napoleon feels the edge of the pool under his feet and gives one last heaving effort to dislodge the attacker’s arms. The attacker seems to expect the movement, reading him easily, and uses Napoleon’s own force against him. Napoleon hits the water with his back flat against the surface, and pain shoots through his whole system. The attacker’s ski-mask must be drenched in the splash as they fall in together, but he doesn’t seem phased, and pushes Napoleon’s head under water. 

Napoleon nearly gulps in water on reflex, but keeps as calm as he can. Victoria must be hearing this. The Hound will be here any moment. He only has to convince the attacker that he’s unconscious before he is and get another breath, enough to survive until the cavalry barges in. Napoleon keeps struggling, but then slowly relaxes into the attacker’s grasp, letting his limbs be carried by the water. 

The attackers hold on him loosen. Napoleon’s lungs are beginning to burn, so he takes his chance and surges up, taking one, wondrous breath. The attacker reacts at once, but not to push him under again. He pulls Napoleon up by the collar and— gives him time to breathe? The action confuses Napoleon so much in the murk of adrenaline, that he doesn’t notice the needle until it’s too late. 

The attacker empties the drugs into his arm, and Napoleon can only say “_Fuck,” _once and deeply, before everything goes black. 

——

The slam of a door. Footsteps, further and further away. Arms tied. Legs tied. Cold. Silent. 

Safe? 

Napoleon comes to slowly, but doesn’t open his eyes. Bug must be gone, but he waits another minutes just in case. With unconsciousness comes salvation— Bug has little interest beating someone who isn’t at least partly present for it. 

Napoleon counts the seconds, but is distracted by a strange sensation. He feels cold, yes, but differently than before. The fabric of his jeans stretch weirdly against him, almost as if he’s— 

Wet. 

Swimming pool. Hotel. Victoria. Hound._ Illya, Illya, Illya. _

The memories come in fragments and pieces, mashing together in a choir of sensations, atonal and accelerating, more and more and more. 

Napoleon sucks in a breath, drowning once more, and falls back into darkness. 

It can’t be long when he wakes again— his clothing are still damp against his skin. The memories have shifted back into place, so clarity comes easier:

He’s screwed, but at least it isn’t Bug. 

Napoleon shifts, trying to ward of the ache building in his muscles, and realises that his legs are freed. Only his wrists are tied, a rope holding them against something warm. Napoleon hears the flow of water and guesses a radiator of some kind. Whoever kidnapped him this time seems to have a bit more heart in them— the pleasant heat has lessened the shivering caused by his wet clothes. The way the rope is tied also seems to be… nice, relatively speaking. It’s professionally done, Napoleon knows pulling on it won’t make a difference, but it isn’t tight enough to strain the skin. Even the rope itself isn’t the sharp nylon thread Napoleon is used to. He’s apparently being kept by a rare form of mercenary that doesn’t get pleasure out of hurting their subjects.

The surroundings are still quiet, besides the sound of cars driving down the street. Which is a good sign. No intelligent criminal would torture their victim where witnesses could hear the screaming. This could be a switch of transport— maybe the driver is late. Napoleon slowly opens his eyes. This could be his chance to escape. 

What he’s met with is about the opposite of what Napoleon expected. He’s in a room that looks like the decades haven’t touched it. The shape sofa and flowery wallpaper land it square in the 50’s, and rug in the middle of the room looks like someone puked up all the dinners of their lifetime and painted the fabric with it. Napoleon guesses it’s meant to look brown-beige. 

Napoleon is so flabbergasted by the things around him — the circle-dial telephone is in the shape of a duck for Christ’s sake — that he’s completely startled by the sound of a key clicking open a lock. 

Napoleon tenses. He frantically looks around the offending area for something that could serve as a weapon. A beautifully crafted letter-opener taunts him from the coffee table. His ropes are as well tied as he feared, so when the door opens Napoleon gives up on struggling and instead focuses on the usual steps. Establish a relationship with the captor, manipulate your way to freedom either through bribes or appeals to humanity— not that he’s had any success with either of those lately. 

His attacker pushes aside the lace curtains separating the kitchenette and the living-room-cum-jailcell. He’s still wearing all black, his face covered with a ski mask. He throws the keys on the coffee table and stretches his arms above his head, yawning. 

A part of Napoleon is cataloging the comfortable way this person holds himself— he’s done this before. He’s completely sure of himself. His build seems fit but the signs of exertion are clear. The rest of Napoleon resigns itself to endless confusion. Which turns out to be the right decision, because when the man notices that Napoleon is awake, he _waves._

“You’re up, _finally,_” the man says, “I really fucked up with the dosage didn’t I? To be fair, I had no clue that you’d lost that much weight. Really skipped leg day, huh.” 

Napoleon shakes his head slowly. “Whatever you gave me is still in effect. You sound very familiar, but also completely insane.” 

The man laughs, muffled by the wool, but heartily. “That might be because I am both,” he says, and pulls the mask over his head. 

“Sup, Boss.” 

Thomas is smiling from ear to ear. His blond strands are pressed strangely against his head but he fixes them up with a quick hand. His cheeks are flushed like he ran a marathon, but he seems energetic, though the blue stains underneath his eyes belie a deeper exhaustion. 

Napoleon drops his head against the wall. “Not your boss,” he says automatically, and then, “Addendum: What the hell is going on?” 

Thomas spreads his arms wide, motioning from Napoleon to the room. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m kidnapping you. Or better yet, I’ve successfully kidnapped you. Go me.”

“Look,” Napoleon says, “Usually when you kidnap me it’s you pushing me to another club, so this is a bit out of the regular agenda. The only reason I can think of for you to really kidnap me is when Victoria orders you to, which is strange because you just _kidnapped me away from Victoria. _So what the fuck are you thinking? She’ll— Jesus. You can’t _do_ this. She’s going to make you regret this.”

Thomas remains all smiles. “Is that a threat?” 

“It’s a _warning,_” Napoleon snaps. “Get out of here. Let them find me. I’ll make something up. Go back to the office and lay low.” 

“And ruin all our hard work?” Thomas asks. “I don’t think so. Muse would cut off my balls and donate them to a museum. ‘_These are the balls of a coward,_’ the sign would read, and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“_Muse_ put you up to this?”

“Who do you think?” Thomas laughs and tilts his head. “It’s been a while, so let me re-introduce myself. I’m Thomas last-name-redacted. I steal shit— mostly things but occasionally people— when smarter people tell me to. I’m good at being sneaky, some call me Shadow. Or at least they should. What else? Yeah, I don’t like blueprints, they make my brain hurt, and guess what you gotta do when planning a theft? Blueprints. Muse handled that bullshit, thank god.” 

“What the fuck,” Napoleon says, heartily. “You’re all insane. What part of playing along did Muse not understand? Are the IDs ready? What do you know?” 

“Wow, wow, Mcquestions, calm down for a sec,” Thomas says, walking toward him. “Let’s continue this convo without your wrist all wonky. Doesn’t look comfortable.” 

“Fine,” Napoleon snaps. 

Thomas raises an eyebrow and holds still. “You’re not gonna beat me up?” 

Napoleon just glares at him. Thomas shrugs and releases the ropes. 

While Napoleon stands up and stretches the sleep out of his limb, Thomas reclines onto the sofa languorously. He pulls a white plastic bag from beside it and the distinct smell of cheap Chinese food hits Napoleon’s nostrils. 

“Hungry?” 

Napoleon sighs and bites his tongue on the need to yell at this— this— _idiocy. _He sits down on the coffee table across from Thomas, making him have to quickly pull away his bowl of chow mein. Napoleon ignores Thomas’ affronted huff and crosses his arms. 

“Your loss,” Thomas says and shoves some chow mein into his mouth. 

Napoleon almost slaps it away from his face. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “You have about ten seconds to explain what the hell you two are doing.”

“Yes, _Boss,” _Thomas rolls his eyes and swallows, continuing without sauce splattering everywhere. “It’s’ three, actually,” he corrects, “You think we could’ve let Jemaine out of this? He might be a bit oblivious but he isn’t stupid.” 

“_Jemaine_ is helping?” 

Napoleon drops his head into his hands. “Just. Start at the beginning, please.” 

“Sure,” Thomas says. “Muse was sneaky about it, but we guessed her shady business had something to do with you, because you’re the shadiest person I know and the only one she wouldn’t have told us about, with what the whole drama and shit.” Thomas waves a hand, like the fight with Jemaine is worth as much as high school gossip, and continues on. “I figured she had it covered, and would tell us if you fucked up more than usual. Which you did, of course. I think you hadn’t been checking in for a day or two, maybe three, when she banned us away from the office, going in one of those hyper-hack-nights. Resurfaced with an addiction to lemon lollipops and the declaration that we had to get the fuck out of dodge.” 

Napoleon resurfaces from his hand-made hide-out and says, “You’ve ran? Muse and Jemaine aren’t in the Office anymore? How— Victoria?” 

“I wasn’t done, idiot,” Thomas says, and flicks some rice at him. “They’re still ‘playing along’ like you said, but our bags are packed. We’re ready to scatter, the only thing missing was you. Fixed that—“ Thomas looks at his watch with exaggerated thoughtfulness “— uh, two hours ago.”

Napoleon is completely speechless. No one runs from Victoria, it’s career suicide, if not just plain motherfucking suicide. They know that, so then— “_Why?_”

_Why are you doing this? What did she find? Why are you here? Why are you helping me? _

Napoleon barely gets the one word out, but it seems enough for Thomas, whose expression loses some of his amused affliction. He looks away, clearing his throat. 

“When you went radio silent, she hacked into Victoria’s personal databases in Lucca. She learned a ton. The mole, the mission, the earwig, where you were, and—“ Thomas pauses and wrings his hands. “Look— it’s better if I just show you.” He springs off the sofa and grabs his coat, grabbing an iPhone out of an inside pocket. There’s a moment of silence while Thomas taps away, and Napoleon floats into the limbo until Thomas faces him and says, “Listen.” 

_“Thirdly—“_

The sound is scratchy like a phone conversation, but more so, as if the mic recorded a stereo instead of the primary source. Despite the noise, the voice is clearly recognisable. 

“_If he isn’t persuaded by the favour he promised me, or that we saved his life from that crime-lord’s sadistic little monster, then threaten his old team. He’s attached and will do anything to protect them. If he doesn’t believe the threat, start with the researcher. He looks pretty, but isn’t as useful as the rest. If we’re lucky, you won’t need to kill the others. The hacker has some worth, and we need the thief if he still decides to run off .” _

The recording clicks off, and Thomas puts his phone away. 

“So yeah,” he says, “ Victoria is prepared to send us to the slaughterhouse, so better to take our chances in the wild, am I right?” He sags back into the couch, shrugging, “And if Victoria thinks she can use us to get you to obey, then you really must give a fuck. So it would be an asshole move to leave you behind.” 

Napoleon tightens his hands around his knees. His stomach rolls. He needs fresh air. But the survivalist in him knows that this is not the time for long walks. He needs to push through his panic and not get into a sniper’s range. God knows what Victoria is up to— 

Victoria. Napoleon _knew. _He hadn’t forgotten how cold she was. Everyone around her is just a pawn and she only cared about what she could bring them, that’s what she _said_. But somehow he’d pushed it away, trying to see more humanity in her than she has. And she plays it so well. 

_If you need someone to understand you, to love you. You know, deep down, that I’ll be the closest you’ll ever get._

How could she say that— even _think_ that— while lining up the people he cares about for the firing squad. Like they’re just pawns, in her never ending game of control. 

Napoleon is going to be sick. 

“You okay, man?” Thomas says, uncharacteristically worried.

“Fine, fine,” Napoleon bites out. “Just— need a moment.” 

Napoleon stands, pacing the room in an attempt to channel some of the manic energy in his system. His body automatically takes him to the kitchen, and he’s halfway into pouring a glass of water when he realises he’s parched. He gulps up two glasses and leans over the sink, trying to get the next step. Victoria is a bitch, what’s new. He’s not going to put more energy into that than she deserves. He’s been kidnapped out of her grasp by a team that hasn’t abandoned him despite _everything. _Those are the people who deserve his attention, and they need him not to break apart right now. 

So. Now what? 

“Jemaine,” Napoleon says, the name slipping out before he can follow his own thoughts. “What I did— why are you _here.” _

And that is the crux of it, isn’t it. They haven’t abandoned him, despite everything, and Napoleon _doesn’t understand. _Why? Why did Thomas risk his life, went through all this, for someone who was monstrous to his friend, and dismissed all of them in one go? 

Thomas frowns. “I told you, the recording—“ 

“No,” Napoleon says, shaking his head. “I mean— the drama.”

“Oh, that?” Thomas shrugs. “I saw that coming from a mile away.”

“What?”

Thomas has rediscovered his amusement while Napoleon was panicking, and continues with his mouth full. “Local librarian falls in love with rampant loverboy, yeah. That story isn’t original. Written thousands of times. Thought nothing of it until the idiot had the bright idea to actually _tell you.”_

“You—“ Napoleon tugs at his hair. “You can’t blame him for what I—“

Thomas ignores him completely. “Of course you’d panic! Sometimes you just gotta keep your mouth shut. Secrets exist for a reason, man.” He shakes his head, frowning. “And yeah, you were a bigger dick about it than any of us expected, but let’s say that drugging and kidnapping you took the edge off. I’m post-Lucien related anger issues, all right?” 

Napoleon takes a long breath, trying to see any dishonesty underneath Thomas’ companionable demeanour. It just doesn’t make any sense, but when has he ever? When have relationships ever? Loyalty seems like a concept made up by a madman, but Napoleon might be staring right at its face. Whatever it is, he better be grateful for it. 

“Okay,” Napoleon says after a moment. “Thank you for— yeah.”

“Hey, no problem, Boss.” Thomas salutes his chopsticks at Napoleon. He nudges his boot against a box of Chinese food. “It’s still warm, you look like you need it.” 

“I’m indisputably not your Boss,” Napoleon informs him. “We’re going rogue, it’s anarchy.” 

“Shut up and eat,” Thomas says. 

Napoleon smirks. “Yes, Boss.” 

“Ugh.” Thomas shudders dramatically. “Never do that again.” 

Napoleon laughs. Silence falls between them as they dig into much needed sustenance. Thomas is done first and disappears for a moment to grab a laptop and a speaker. 

“Any preference?” he asks, setting it up on the dresser across them. 

Napoleon shrugs. “Haven’t listened to anything in a while.” 

“Don’t let Muse hear you,” Thomas says. “She’ll implode, the girl mainlines music like Jemaine does coffee.” 

Napoleon chuckles. “I’ll keep it between us.” 

“I’ll make sure you’re back on track before she knows,” Thomas promises. 

The music switches on, and within seconds Napoleon recognises the familiar melody. Present and past edge together and Napoleon feels the echo of a warm presence besides him. But for the first time in months, he doesn’t need the help of torture to let the memory be. He doesn’t ask Thomas to change it, and instead just— listens. 

_If I ever leave you, baby _

_You can say I told you so_

_And if I ever hurt you _

_You know, I hurt myself as well_

It must have been a few weeks after the camp. There is no hesitance in their touch, no guilt in the kiss. It was a brief moment of respite. Those rare times that he could just pretend to be Vincenzo, and that this is what he had. Someone to love.

_Is that any way for a man to carry on_

_Do you think I want my loved one gone_

_Said I love you_

_More than you'll ever know_

_More than you'll ever know_

When the tides of emotion come a little too close, Napoleon refocuses on his food, trying to keep the exhaustion and sadness off his face. Luckily, Thomas seems distracted with something. He’s twirling his chopsticks in his hand, and clears his throat when they both drop into his lap. 

Napoleon puts his plate on the table and leans back into the sofa, inviting Thomas’ question with his silence. 

“About the kidnapping thing,” Thomas begins. “Thought I’d be lucky to come away with a broken bone or two, but nada. What gives?”

Napoleon huffs, smiling a little at Thomas’ attempt to camouflage his concern, and says.,“I suppose believing that you’ve just become better than me would be too much to ask?”

“Hell nah man, come on.” Thomas shakes his head, but gives a small grin, “Don’t pull that shit on me. Muse was super vague. What’s the damage?”

Napoleon turns away a bit and shrugs. “Let’s say that working solo isn’t what I remembered it to be, and that you can never outrun your problems. They’ll catch up.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Your_ past_ is what got you tortured?”

Napoleon has to suppress a flinch at the word— it’s just, too real to be said out loud so casually. If no one knows then it’s easier to ignore, somehow, but now… “Did it get onto the front-page of the office newspaper or something? What are you asking for if you know?”

Thomas face twists a bit at the tone. “Nah,” he says, “Muse was vague, but I ain’t stupid.”

Napoleon tries to reign the bitterness in, forcing himself to relax when he jokes, “You sure about that?” 

The relief is immediate in Thomas’s laugh as he flips him off. “Watch who’re callin’ stupid. If I’m stupid, what says that about you with me kidnapping your ass?” 

“Yeah, yeah. You got a point,” Napoleon says. “Guess I’m not on my best.” 

“Ya think?” Thomas says, but he softens the blow with a companionable punch against Napoleon’s arm. “So how did your problems kick your ass? Angry ex?” 

Napoleon sighs inside and has to physically push himself through a strange barrier, almost preventing him to speak. He owes Thomas some answers; he’s putting his life on the line to get him out. “No, not in that way,” Napoleon says eventually, “More, indirectly. Consequences of consequences.”

Thomas nods, thoughtful for a moment. He grabs a pen off the floor and plays with it, until he shakes his head and looks at Napoleon. His expression doesn’t hold a hint of amusement, taking on a shade of seriousness that seems almost unnatural on his face. “I know we don’t have enough booze for this, but dude, are you ever gonna talk about what happened in Russia?” 

Napoleon barks a laugh. “Hell no.”

“Figured,” Thomas says, chuckling a bit. He rubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “ But— look Boss, I get it that you don’t wanna talk about this shit with me, but something fucked with you in there, and if it’s got you tortured indirectly, that’s bad enough. You don’t trust me, that’s fine, but go to Muse.”

Napoleon forces himself not to look away from Thomas. He has to face this. “This isn’t about trust,” he says honestly. “It’s like you said, some secrets are meant to be kept. I’m keeping mine.” 

“Fine, fine.” Thomas sighs. “I’ll drop it. If you change your mind though…”

Napoleon feels his lips twitch into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, and pushes through another barrier, adding, “Appreciate it, Tommy.” 

Thomas shrugs and looks away, but the returning smile is clear in his voice. “You’d do the same for me.” 

A moment of silence falls between them, and Napoleon watches the curtains shift in the wind. Thomas closed them long ago, but the old windows let just enough air in through the wooden frames to make the fabric dance without rhythm. It’s probably not the best anti-sniper protocol, but Napoleon can’t get himself to care at the moment. He feels wrung-out, exhausted by the rollercoaster of emotions that this day— or days?— have brought him. He doesn’t really know where he is, and even less where he’ll be tomorrow, but surprisingly, none of that worries him.

He feels safe. Hell, isn’t that novel. 

Thomas paces through the apartment a bit, and comes back bringing a laptop, two beers and a bag of potato chips. 

“Muse is supposed to contact us through that forum thing of hers at midnight,” he says when he notices Napoleon looking. “That’s thirty minutes off, but I wanted to get it before I’m permanently glued to the sofa.” 

“Tired?” 

“Yeah, guess what, stealing a whole person isn’t a walk in the park,” Thomas says and yawns. “I need a nap.” 

Napoleon laughs. “You’re welcome to.” 

“Nah, I’m way to pumped with adrenaline now. Better wait until we know how the other side is doing.” 

“Sure,” Napoleon says. “What are they doing exactly?”

“Covering our tracks, perfecting exit strategies, managing shit. The usual.” 

“Any idea what’s gonna happen next?” 

“Nope,” Thomas says, popping the _p _laconically and throwing a potato chip in the air, catching it perfectly between his teeth. “Didn’t want to spill any secrets in case I got caught.” 

Napoleon’s shoulders weight heavy suddenly, and he sighs, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. 

Thomas sees his reaction and shrugs, smiling. “Part of the job, Boss” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Napoleon says. “Don’t—“

“Shut up.” 

As Thomas loads up the website, Napoleon busies himself with throwing the leftovers away. He keeps an ear on the living room, because this is it. Turning back would be hard anyway, but Napoleon knows that the moment Muse comes online, they’re all gonna be thrown headfirst into a mad dash of survival. And he’s been like that for months now, and before Victoria for years more, but are the others really ready for it? They’re all as capable as he is in their own fields, but Napoleon cannot help but see them as younger. They aren’t, or not at least all of them. He guesses that Jemaine might be a bit older than him, while Muse is probably the exact same age as Napoleon. 

But Thomas? He’d been 19 when Napoleon worked with him first. It hadn’t fazed him at the time. At that age Napoleon had faced the betrayal of his father, and consequently made his own criminal path for himself. Thomas had reminded him of that— the blind ambition and the desperate need to become better, all hidden beneath a cocky veneer. So when Victoria put him in charge of training up the kid, Napoleon had merely appreciated his commitment to learn, and basked in the idealisation that gleamed in his eyes those first few months. 

He never once thought that a kid like that should be doing something better with his life. Jesus Christ. Now it’s all he can think about. How could he have let that happen? 

Napoleon slinks back into the living room when he can’t put it off any longer, although barely any time has passed. Thomas is sitting hunched over the laptop, intently watching a monitoring program, quickly clicking through a series of tabs with no apparent motive. His shirt is strained by his slender but capable muscles, and his demeanour is confident and relaxed. He’s nothing like the kid Napoleon had known anymore.

The echo of Victoria’s voice passes through his mind. _You trained him well. _

He did. But at what cost? 

Thomas breaks him out of his pondering abruptly. “I’m curious about one thing though.”

Napoleon crosses his arms and tries not to look thrown. “Ask,” he says, “but don’t expect an answer.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Thomas waves it away. “Muse told us that Victoria thinks there is a mole behind Uncle’s vanishing act. But there is no evidence of it. Zippo, zilch.” 

He reiterates the point by forming a zero with his thumb and middle finger. Napoleon huffs a smile, but then realises what that implies. 

“The suspects she gave me were faked?” 

“Nah, we don’t think so. She really seemed to believe that they’d betrayed her somehow, and they probably did. Two of ‘em were in contact with Hong Kong Kaiju harvest groups, and Petrolini had been embezzling money for the last three years. But none of them were anywhere near Uncle when he went poof.” 

Napoleon rounds the coffee table and sits down so that Thomas doesn’t have to strain his neck to look at him. “What’s Muse planning with that anyway? I assume you’ve not just kidnapped me and left Victoria to figure out what happened.” 

Thomas’ eyes gleam, a bit smug as he explains, “Muse is pinning it on Petrolini, making him look like he stole Uncle first and then you, to pull the strings to get more power.” 

“The moment she has him, he’ll break,” Napoleon says, raising an eyebrow. “Confessing to embezzling isn’t hard if the alternative is a coup.” 

Thomas smiles, a little wicked. “Oh, he won’t talk. Trust us. She’ll update you when she can, but this is beside the point.” 

Napoleon shrugs. “If Muse has a plan, she has a plan. What were you asking me?” 

Thomas leans forward a bit, conspiratorially. “Are you the mole?” he asks, faux-hushed. “Did you betray Vic?” 

Napoleon shakes his head at his dramatics but then thinks about the question for a moment. Saying no would be a lie, but yes doesn’t quite cover it either. In the end, he says, “I’m not the mole if there is one, but I did betray her, just not in the way she’s thinking.” 

“Hey, man, I’m all for sabotaging her shit, but what did you do?” Thomas asks impatiently. “Don’t be vague with it. We could pin that on Petrolini too, but Muse gotta know.”

“It’s nothing she can use,” Napoleon says, turning away. He feels the walls fall between them, but he can’t help it. “I’m not talking about it.”

Thomas looks at him keenly. “So it’s about Russia, isn’t it.”

Napoleon glares to a point at the wall, feeling helpless in his frustration with himself, and the fact that he has to think about this shit again. The letter is going to haunt him until the day he dies, but god help him, he can’t regret it. 

“I’m not gonna pry, Boss. But if the Russians are on our ass, we gotta change our tactics. Hell, if they got Uncle, we’re all fucked.” 

“Shit,” Napoleon says. All this time he’d kind of assuming Uncle realised the madness Victoria had become and used his new jaeger tech to get a new sugar mommy— or daddy for that matter. But what if that isn’t the case? As far as his sources go, the Russian Jaeger Federation have only been active around his name, and even if they did, the name Napoleon Solo should have been a dead end ever since he ditched it for Alexander Blight. 

But he’s been out of contact with any source since Bug came along, so it’s incredibly stupid to have assumed that based on ole information. For all he knows the Russians are sucking Uncle dry of his secrets, and Victoria is the least thing they have to worry about. 

Napoleon opens his mouth to— say something, _anything_. But then the laptop beeps and a message fills up the page. 

“It’s Muse,” Thomas says, whipping back around and running his hands over the keyboard. Enlarges something on his screen and it flickers from black to blue, until a camera blinks on and they’re faced with Muse, just in time to see her bubblegum pop in her face. 

“There they are!” she exclaims, slamming her boots back on the ground to make space on her desk, rummaging around until the quality of the sound increases abruptly. “That’s better,” she mutters under her breath and then, “Jemaine! I got them! They’re live!” 

“I’m busy, can you handle it?” They hear from outside the screen, almost too muffled to hear.

“Fine!” Muse yells back, and then turns to the webcam, narrowing her eyes at the both of them. “Your wifi is shit,” she says. 

Napoleon barks a laugh, and at once the tension that had been hanging over them breaks. “Hello to you too, Muse.” 

“Do you remember who sent me to this safe house in the first place?” Thomas argues, but it comes across more like teasing. “Not my fault we’re stuck in a time capsule.” 

But Muse clearly doesn’t take it that way. “I assumed you could set up a simple hotspot, sorry for expecting more of you,” she snaps waspishly. “Now we’ve got to cut this short, as this shitty ass wifi also is one of the biggest breaches of security I’ve ever seen. Say hi to Victoria guys, because she could be watching as easy as turning on her laptop and _thinking about us hard enough._“

“Hey, hey,” Napoleon tries placatingly, frowning. “Anything going wrong?” 

“Yeah,” Thomas says, crossing his arms and looking vaguely offended but too surprised to act on it yet. “What the hell stung your ass?’ 

“I haven’t slept in 40 hours and counting,” she bites out, magicking an energy drink from somewhere and taking two large gulps. “So I’d rather not have to deal with a connection like this, but it turns out the universe hates me and—“ 

“Muse,” Napoleon interrupts. “What’s the plan? What do you need us to do?” 

Muse’s lips thin for a moment, her eyes tensing further, but then at once she lets it go, taking one deep breath. “Sorry,” she mutters. “Thomas, everything went like we prepared?” 

“Pretty much,” Thomas says, seeming willing to let the lapse slide as well. “I drugged Sal a bit too heavily, but other than that, things went smooth.” 

Muse nods, and then keeps nodding until she shakes her head once, abruptly. Napoleon recognises the twitchy movements and her wide eyes very well, but this a worse state than he’s ever seen her in. 

Thomas doesn’t seem to notice, as he carries own blithely, “Hey, this is something that might wake you up. The Russians could have Uncle.” 

Muse freezes. “_What?_” She flicks her eyes between the two of them until finally landing on Napoleon. “What did you _do_?”

“Why do you assume that I—” Napoleon stops his reflexive protest at her glare and sighs. “I might have let some information slip during my time at the base, that could possibly have led to Uncle’s disappearance, but I’d be very surprised. The information I gave was basic, it should have taken them at least six months to get anywhere near his base of operations, let alone succeed in catching the slippery bastard. And if they don’t have him, they’ll think the Russian op was fully his idea, and everything else will lead back to the identity you’ve terminated.” 

Muse closes her eyes for a moment and takes a shuddering breath. “You mean the identity Victoria knows you as? The identity that she uses on a day to fucking day basis?” 

Napoleon can’t suppress the surprise on his face. 

“Yeah, I know that Solo is more than just one of your identities, Lucca is full of fucking references to it. Which, by the way, you should have told me earlier because how the hell was I supposed to eradicate it in the first place if I didn’t know how deep it went?” 

Napoleon looks away, and sighs. “I—“ 

“Don’t bother apologising,” Muse snaps. “It’s wasting my time. You two have to pack your bags and catch a plane in two hours flat, I’ll text you the details. It’s a private plane flown by a pilot by the codename Ironwing, and it’s costing me all my favours to get you out of Italy off the record. So don’t be late. I’ll contact you later when I’ve gotten some sleep and I’m less fucking angry.” 

The screen turns black, and the silence pounds inside Napoleon’s head.

“Solo, huh?” Thomas says, after a little while. “I heard some stories about that guy.” 

Napoleon’s tongue is stuck in his throat. It’s like his life just keeps falling into pieces in different and creative ways, but he doesn’t know how to stop breaking things. He’s never learned how to keep things whole. 

“Look, boss,” Thomas says, and he sounds way too old and way too tired at that moment, and Napoleon just wants to run and never disappoint everyone ever again. “I know you’ve got secrets. All of us do. I’m not gonna expect you to tell me everything. But if you want this to work, you gotta trust us. All of us.” 

“I know,” Napoleon says, scraping just enough sounds together to voice it out loud. 

“Do you, though?” Thomas snaps the laptop shut. “Do you really?” 

Napoleon doesn’t answer. 

“You know what I think?” Thomas asks slowly. “I think you don’t know how to anymore.” 

And with that he stands up and walks away. He doesn’t exit the building, just opens a door Napoleon thinks leads to a bedroom, and closes it behind him. A part of Napoleon wishes he’d slammed it. 

The rest of him just really, really, really wants a fucking drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you know how long I had to keep quiet about how much I love Tommy as a character because then i'd be spoiling that he'd come back later in the narrative?? So Long. I'm finally Free


	12. Saved and Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter. I hope you enjoy.

Napoleon doesn’t know how long he sits there, alone in the living room, only that it gets colder as the sun finally sets. It’s too quiet. After four days of Victoria in his ear, Napoleon feels the absence like a hiss in the ether. He’s halfway expecting her to pipe up again, laughing maniacally at everything she overheard. Napoleon shivers and chalks his paranoia up to exhaustion. His head feels heavy and light at the same time, and Napoleon drops into the cushions of the sofa, too tired to look for a bed. His clothes have dried in all the excitement, but that doesn’t save him from the cold. He puts his hands under his armpits and closes his eyes. Even if he’d had the energy to get up and ask Thomas for a blanket, his pride wouldn’t have let him. He can survive this. He’s been through hell and came out alive. A little cold won’t do anything. 

He sleeps in short bursts, dreams weaving in and out of his consciousness but the threads are too ghostly to keep a hold off. Napoleon wakes in the early morning almost more exhausted than he was yesterday. His mouth feels like it’s filled with dust and his throat itches like—

“Bless you,” Thomas says at Napoleon’s loud sneeze. “Idiot.” 

Napoleon begins to speak, but is interrupted with a rumbling cough. 

“Here.” Thomas puts down a cup of coffee. “Should warm you up a bit.” 

“Thanks,” Napoleon says and clears his throat. He turns into a sitting position and takes a grateful sip, warming his frigid fingers around the mug. “Didn’t hear you coming in.” 

“You were out for the count,” Thomas says from the other room. He comes back dragging a large duffle bag, and throws Napoleon a familiar sweater. “You left some shit at the Office.” 

Napoleon catches it, almost spilling the coffee over his leg. The sweater has fold lines in it like it’s been stored somewhere for a long time, but the hole in the lettering on the fabric is still there. It’s a university sweater— for a con, of course, but whereas he’d normally throw away all evidence that could tie him to a used identity, this one Napoleon had kept. Maybe because, if his life had been different, this would have been the art school he would’ve gone to. The art history classes had been interesting in any case. 

Napoleon shrugs it on, trying to ignore the momentary lapse into what-ifs, and moves on to processing what Thomas had said. He’s always been a notoriously light sleeper; only Illya had seemed to be an exception to his ever present vigilance. So either Thomas had been wrong and he’s learning to trust them after all, or he’s worse off than he thought. 

Napoleon coughs again, trying to suppress most of it. But the ache in his muscles persists, and he realises that maybe the pains he’d had yesterday weren’t all the lingering consequences of Serbia. Napoleon shakes his head, trying to focus, but a headache slowly adds itself to the count, becoming sharper as he stands and stretches out. 

Thomas is leaning against the wall, watching him, and says, “We have an hour, you could shower and change while I get us a car. You could get some sleep on the way there.” 

“Get a car?” Napoleon asks. “I presume Victoria could trace our purchases, so how much cash do you have in that bag.” 

Thomas smiles, and he takes a slim object out of his pocket. “I mean, liberate it from its current owner.” 

Napoleon chuckles, which turns into another cough. 

Thomas whacks him on the shoulder and says, “Maybe you need the whole flight.” 

“Where are we going?” Napoleon asks. He drinks the dregs of his coffee and then walks to the kitchen to fill his mug with water and gulps that up too. 

“Paris,” Thomas says, “After that? A roll of the dice. We’re regrouping there, and then it’s just a matter of picking a train and going. The old split up and run. Victoria is losing ground in Europe, the last six Kaiju attacks have been in Hong Kong, so she has started to move the operation to Asia. Most of the office has already moved while you were in Russia.” 

Napoleon hums to himself. “That’s why she’s been so obsessed with the Jaeger documents. She doesn’t have the same network of power there as she started with here. Having a working prototype would have gotten her investors lining up hungry for their very own mechanical protection. She’d be set.” 

“Yeah, that’s Jemaine’s theory,” Thomas says. “She isn’t gonna let us go easy. Italy is still her playground, and we don’t know what kind of deals she’s making in East Europe. But she isn’t as omnipresent as she was at first. Everything besides drugs and guns are dipping heavily, there aren’t many major parties looking for fixers anymore. They’re all bunkered up somewhere in Switzerland.” 

“That means it’s going to be hard to find work after this,” Napoleon ventures.

Thomas laughs, shaking his head. “You’ve done okay, so I’ll be good. If all fails I’ll follow in your footsteps and find me some Jaeger secrets, they seem to sell well.” 

He winks, clearly joking, but Napoleon’s lips thin at the idea. 

“That isn’t going to keep Victoria off your back,” he says. “Stay away from her interests if you want to stay free for long.” 

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Christ, you’re grumpy. I know, Boss. I’ll keep my hands away from the heat for a little while. Organised crime might have trouble finding big fish, but for us independent contractors there is always something to do. What are you planning anyway?” 

“Muse didn’t tell you that bit?” Napoleon asks rhetorically, and adds. “I’m done, Thomas. I’m retired.” 

“Really?” Thomas’ eyes widen. “I didn’t think she was serious about that. Damn. I thought I’d never see the day. You always seemed like the kinda guy that would die of natural causes in the middle of a diamond heist.” 

Napoleon laughs at the image but shakes his head. “I’d be long dead before that. Nah, I’m done. Gonna live out the rest of the apocalypse away from all this. Got too close a few times.” 

Thomas’ face takes a shade of seriousness, and Napoleon gets the sense that he knows there is more behind his decision. But then Thomas shrugs, slings his bag over his shoulder and says, “Send postcards if you’re planning to travel. Might start up a collection.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Napoleon says, and nods to the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in ten.” 

“Alright. I’m gonna be back in around the same time. Don’t shoot me with your dick out.” 

“With clothes on it’s alright?”

Thomas flips him the bird and Napoleon walks chuckling to the bathroom, turning the shower on to heat up while the front door slams shut in the other room. 

———

The cough persists all through their drive to the small airport, and during the flight in an airplane Napoleon would never have classified as a private plane, more a rackety veteran aircraft that shakes with every small gust of wind. The pilot is an older woman, her unnaturally ginger hair pulled in a tight bun. She refuses to hear their false names, and even makes an effort to not look at their faces too closely. When Napoleon almost sneezes at her, she seems more and more reluctant to let them in. But a timely reminder of favours owed to Muse gets them in the air anyway. 

Napoleon counts himself lucky to have survived the flight. He was sure for at least two moments that they would drop right to the ground. But they make it to yet another airport, a smaller one in Germany, and Napoleon keeps guard as Thomas gets their new identities from a guy who looks more like a lawyer than a forger, but Napoleon supposes that looking like the latter would kind of defeat the purpose. 

In the end his cold has worsened to such an extent that he can barely breathe out of nose. He looks so pathetic that their way through the gates goes uncharacteristically smooth, the woman at the desk wincing sympathetically and changing their seats away from the aircon at the back of the plane, which, according to her, are hell on the throat. The charity persists into the plane, where a lovely flight attendant provides Napoleon with tissues and hot soup. 

Thomas watches the whole thing with increased amusement, shaking his head at yet another attendant coming by to ask if he really doesn’t want some aspirin and a pillow to sleep. 

“Why haven’t I thought of this before,” Napoleon says when she’s gone. “Getting to this kind of sympathy would’ve cost me hours, but get a bit sick and you’re drowning with it.” 

“To be fair, they don’t have much to do anyway,” Thomas argues. “Why not try to get the number of the guy who still looks hot while coughing up a storm?” 

Napoleon laughs, and then coughs longer. 

“I’ll run that con some time,” Thomas says, “if you’re really not going to.” 

Napoleon sighs and wipes his nose. “No,” he says, “I’m not.” He’s sure that it would sound more convincing without sniffling in between, but the point must come across. 

Thomas shrugs and looks away. “Your loss.” 

Napoleon leans back. Thomas’ disappointment stings, but Napoleon doesn’t quite understand why it’s there. Whether he works or not wouldn’t affect Thomas, hell, it would give him less competition as they work the same kind of jobs. Or— maybe he’d been hoping to join up together. Napoleon sighs. It would’ve made sense. It would’ve been fun, even. They work together well, and Napoleon had always enjoyed the spirit Thomas brought to the field. Maybe if Victoria had let them both go after Russia… or no, Napoleon remembers what he’d been back then. He’d just wanted to shed everything, still pretending he could be another person and forget everything he’d left behind. But he’s learned that you can’t. 

And this is why he can’t give Thomas what he wants. He’s made his decision, and besides, he isn’t even sure if it would’ve been good for Thomas either. 

_No, _Napoleon thinks. _It’s your loss. You’re wasting your life, walking straight into your death, and for what? Pain, isolation and suffering, only because you don’t know anything else. You’re making the same mistakes I made. _

Napoleon closes his eyes. A young face swims in his view— Thomas’ determined expression so much like his own. He isn’t gonna be able to convince him, just like he hadn’t convinced himself. It’s just so hard, letting go of what you’ve been trying to become for so long. You have to break trying, piece yourself together and break again, before realising it might not be worth it. 

And even then, how many times did Napoleon ruin his own life and the lives of those around him, before doing the exact same thing again? It’s a cycle, one he barely got out of and might yet still fall back into if Victoria is successful in capturing them— any of them. She knows his weaknesses now, and he’s gonna be damned to let them sacrifice themselves for him. 

But what if they do make it out. Is he really going to let Thomas go through the same cycle of suffering? How can he let that happen? How can he stop it?

Napoleon falls into a tumultuous sleep before he can find any answers. 

Paris doesn’t bring them either. 

The Gare du Nord is as chaotic as Napoleon remembers it. The stench of piss by the outer railsides is quickly taken over by the sweat of masses of people. It seems the tourists who’ve skipped on Venice are here instead, and they are almost separated when Thomas gets swallowed up by a flock of them, following their guide like they’re starved jackals and she’s got fresh meat speared on her parasol. 

Thomas watches them go and chuckles. “Imagine wanting Paris to be the last trip of your life,” he says. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Why not? The city of romance has a lot to offer. I wouldn’t mind spending my last hours in the Louvre.” 

“Of course you’d say that,” Thomas says. “That doesn’t count. The Louvre isn’t Paris. The Mona Lisa room is a piece of Paris within the Louvre, but the rest of it ain’t.” 

“That makes more sense than it ought to,” Napoleon murmurs thoughtfully. “Where would you go for your last trip, if you get the chance?” 

Thomas seems to think about it for a bit, but his coming answer is interrupted by the transition from the station to the winding streets outside. Napoleon flags them a cab and they drive a few blocks before switching to another cab, and then another, just as Muse’s instructions commanded them to. 

The cab drives them to the motel and Napoleon is relieved to finally sit still for a moment, the relative calm of the plane already erased into the far past. During the final stretch, Thomas ends up answering the question belatedly. 

“I’d go to Bangkok,” Thomas says, “I loved Thailand when I was there as a kid, but don’t remember much of it. Been to it again for a job, but you know how that is; motel and warehouse skipping doesn’t get you a real cultured experience. Would be nice to see it as a tourist some time.” 

He laughs, looking like he expects Napoleon to join in, but Napoleon just nods, and says, “Maybe you should go, after all this.” 

Thomas laughs again, but then frowns a little, and chuckles half-heartedly. “Maybe, maybe,” he says. “if I get bored. Or old, like you.” 

Napoleon laughs along this time, but it tastes sour in his mouth. He can see it— Thomas exploring the humid and winding streets, trying out market food and picking out the real from the fake with his expert eye on the counterfeit stalls. Napoleon hadn’t known he’d traveled there when he was young— more, he doesn’t know anything about Thomas’ youth. He’s never even thought to ask, and now it seems too late. 

The cabdriver drops them off on a dreary alleyway that leads onto a small parking court, flanked by three two story buildings. The grey clouds light up with thunder, and Napoleon coughs heavily in the flash of rain that washes into his face. 

“Let’s get going,” Thomas says, and takes off running to the entrance. 

Napoleon follows, trying to keep the worst of the rain from falling into his eyes. He can barely see in front of him, and almost runs into Thomas when he suddenly halts. It takes them ten minutes for the manager to come down and let them in, and by that time they’re both thoroughly soaked. 

They burst into their rooms together, heaving with breath. Thomas shakes out his hair, thick droplets scattering across the floor and laughs. “Deja vu,” he says, and starts to wring his hair out. 

Napoleon rummages around for towels instead and throws it at Thomas, before drying his own head thoroughly. “I hope this isn’t going to be a trend with you.” 

“If we ever meet again,” Thomas says, leering, “I promise I won’t get you wet _too _much.”

Napoleon throws the wet towel at his face and says, “I was wondering where your innuendo had gone.” 

“It isn’t as fun if Jemaine isn’t here to get all flustered about it,” Thomas says, “and Muse teasing him for that. Speaking of which, I’m gonna check on how they’re doing.” 

“Good idea,” Napoleon says, and notices the pools of water they have created on the floor. “I’m going to get more towels, I get the feeling the showers here won’t be much better than the rain outside.” 

“All right,” Thomas says, “put some beers in the fridge too. Muse said we’ll be here at least two nights, and that’s something I wanna forget asap.” 

By the time Thomas gets off the phone with Muse and Napoleon has mopped up their entrance puddle and the trail of droplets Thomas left everywhere, they’re both two beers deep and counting. The raid of the measly snack-fridge didn’t do much to ward off the alcohol, but between laughing at a random reality tv-show and trying to make a s'mores without biscuits, the slight tipsy sensation only adds onto the fun. They don’t have anywhere to go tomorrow anyway, Napoleon figures, and this may be their chance to loosen up for a moment. 

Thomas victoriously finds a stash of stronger drinks in the back of a closet, and Napoleon wisely doesn’t look at the prices on the service menu hanging by the front door. Instead he goes to look for shot glasses— or what will function as shot glasses. The tall champagne glasses get filled to what should probably be the same amount as a shot, and drunk just as quickly, and Napoleon falls into a comfortable warmth of laughter and dizziness. Thomas’ booming voice crests like a wave through the perpetual drone of the television. It’s easy to fumble along with jokes and teasing. It’s easy to forget that this isn’t one of their jobs. 

Until Thomas sighs, mid-joke, slumping back in his chair and taking a swig of the last beer available. 

Napoleon nudges him with his foot from his resting-spot on the floor— how he ended up there he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t look at the stain next to his head too hard either. 

“Where—,” Napoleon tries, and starts again, distracted by the feel of his numb lips across his teeth. “Where has the punchline gone?” 

“What?” Thomas sits up straighter, head lolling to the side, and looks down at Napoleon curiously. “Did I punch you?” 

“No, no,” Napoleon mumbles. He tries to push himself up, and is simultaneously assaulted by an array of bright colours and a whacking cough. He gives up on moving, letting the coughing pass until he can speak again. “You were making a joke.” 

“Oh yeah,” Thomas says, “It’s not a joke.” 

“Huh?” 

“A joke is funny,” Thomas explains slowly. “It wasn’t funny so it isn’t a joke. My brain caught it before it left my mouth.”

“Ah,” Napoleon says. “What did it say?” 

There is a silence for a moment, long enough for Napoleon to get drowsy, but he’s roused by Thomas’ voice. 

“Something— Something about an after party. That we’re after partying to early. The job ain’t done yet. Jemaine would say we gotta wait to drink until it’s done. Something about that. But it ain’t funny, because this isn’t a job. There won’t be a party, ‘cause there won’t be an after.” 

“Oh.” Napoleon puts a hand over his eyes to block out the flickering light above him, and the sense of dread that comes with Thomas’ words. 

“See,” Thomas says morosely. “Not funny.” 

“No,” Napoleon agrees. “It isn’t.” 

But that is weird, isn’t it? Napoleon tries to sit up again, and this time his lungs let him breathe during it. The sensation of strangeness last through him stumbling to the bathroom to fill his champagne glass with water a couple of times. Why is it weird? They’ve done this before, they’ve said goodbye, all as a group— partied even. The club night was a giant after party for all the jobs they’ve done together, and back then Napoleon thought he’d never see them again. 

Back then he thought that he’d be better off without them. That he wouldn’t even _miss_ them, and that they would forget about him just as easily. Napoleon barks a laugh to himself. It echoes against the tiles and comes back colder, like the shadow-sound knows it’s not really a laugh, but more a whine of pain. He had been so wrong about all of it. They hadn’t forgotten about him. They’d _saved_ him. Again.

Again?

Napoleon tries to wrack his brain for the thought behind that statement. It was so clear through all the mush. They saved him again. But from what? From who? Before the team, working with Victoria wasn’t all that bad. Rather, it was glorious. Yes, fine, those first few weeks sucked, and the electric chair wasn’t fun either. But after they realised Napoleon had been just a cocky idiot stealing from Victoria’s personal safe to challenge himself, she started to see his potential. He hadn’t even been hired to do it. He just did it because he wanted to prove himself better than the queen of the criminal world. 

He failed, of course. Or worse, he succeeded— got the diamonds, got her secrets, but then didn’t know what to do with them. Too young, too inexperienced, he panicked and tried to sell it to the first person who came around, who he later came to know as The Hound. 

Napoleon still feels the pricking of electricity around his wrists, Uncle trying to pry who his handler was out of him. No one would just impulsively decide to steal from Victoria Vinciguerra, right?

Just like no one would just burn a seven million dollar painting, right? 

Victoria believed him eventually. He was good enough, worthy for a deal of debts. The humiliation the theft created for her wasn’t a simple thing to pay off, of course, but Victoria also saw this as an accomplishment. If he could steal from her, he could steal from anyone. 

So that’s what he did. And it wasn’t horrible; it was fantastic, amazing, exciting and god what he wouldn’t have given for his father to see him then— the right hand man of a person even _he_ had admired. Those first years with Victoria had been everything he’d hoped for, hadn’t it? A position his father had never thought him worthy for and just at 21, he’d been the best fucking thief in the world. 

It was only later that Victoria started to grate on him, but he can’t remember why anymore. He just knows that at some point he realised that the privileges she gave him were made of shackles, and he needed out. So how did they save him? 

Napoleon takes another desperate gulp of water. Sweat is beading down his forehead and his eyes blur with the effort to think. It’s all so shaky, he remembers flashes, he remembers drinking, he remembers bottles and bottles and passing out and Victoria’s waspish smiles and her crooning voice just not being _enough_ anymore. It didn’t fill that gaping hole inside of him anymore, and the drinking allowed him to forget that maybe it never truly did. 

She’d never fixed him. 

Even if she’d given him clarity, purpose, status, accomplishments. Even if she’d smiled at him with pride and possession, as if he was worth something— something people would want to have, something people wouldn’t have left behind. Even if he’d thought, for way too long, that he’d loved her; she hadn’t fixed him.

Maybe his pieces were more useful to her then his whole. 

But then Muse came along as a presence beside his desk and she didn’t— she saw him. She teased and laughed and yelled and cheered and all of it felt real and hers and _theirs. _It wasn’t emotions on a string, pulling him from objective to objective. There were no compliments poised like bait on a fishing hook. It was her, with all her mocking, complaining and covert worrying, and Napoleon slowly learned to be honest again, sometimes, around her. 

And then came Thomas, with bright eyes that hadn’t been swallowed yet by the murky darkness of their reality. He hung on Napoleon’s every word, worshipped the ground he walked on and maybe Napoleon realised then what a delicious feeling it is to have power over a person who is dependant on your approval. And he learned then that misusing this power made him feel more sick than when Victoria forced him to kill—

And maybe he realised that she’d been feeling that same sweet power over him, but didn’t feel disinclined to use it. 

But it wasn’t until Jemaine that the rose coloured glass around Victoria’s visage shattered into pieces. He’d had to find someone so displaced at her hand to realise that her control was not a trade off to a worthy life, but a torturous pressure that made life worthless. 

Jemaine had been two steps away from a bullet in his brain before Napoleon got to him. The violence he’d had to inflict on Victoria’s orders every day had destroyed him, and it took him weeks before he even dared to part from his gun. 

“Escape tactic,” he’d said, when Napoleon asked. “If someone forced me to use it, I could use it on myself first.” 

_They had saved him. _

Napoleon resurfaces from his memories for a moment, heaving in the toilet, with little in his stomach to cough up. They had saved him by showing him what he hadn’t seen for himself. They had confronted him with what he’d accepted to live under, and shown him the true face of Victoria, the cutting edge of her sharp smiles. 

But even then, leaving had been too hard. It had been easier to drink it all away; cope by working harder, shutting down, and letting Jemaine fuck him as they both were desperate for an escape. 

How could he have let it get this far? How could have left them behind, still under debt?

Because despite everything, he’d still trusted Victoria to let them go. He’d still believed in the system that had screwed him over for so many years. How clever it was of her, to convince them that everything they went through was on themselves, that their debts — their small mistakes— justified the way she used them for years. 

God. 

They all deserved so much better. 

Napoleon walks back into the living room wading through a mist of guilt, gratitude and terror, which all but drowns him when he sees Thomas lying diagonally across the sofa, legs akimbo and his arms drunkenly directing the music coming from the room across the hall. 

“Tommy,” Napoleon says miserably, the mist whisps over his tongue and spills out. 

“Yeah?” Thomas looks up, one hand still waving in rhythm but the other frozen in place, like a strange signal that he’s listening at least partly. 

“If we get out of this—“ Napoleon corrects himself because he cannot think about this being the end of Thomas. It being his fault. “When _you_ get out of this— quit the business. Find something else to do. Don’t spend the last years we have on this planet being—“ Napoleon stills, at a loss, and then vaguely motions between the two of them — “This.” 

Thomas flops back down, laughing a little but it sounds like oncoming thunder, like Napoleon crossed a line somewhere. 

“A what?” Thomas says, his voice turning less amused by the syllable. “A criminal? A thief? A bumfuck like you? After everything you’ve taught me, I’m just supposed to _bail_?” 

_Venomous_, Napoleon realises, Thomas sounds venomous.

“It isn’t worth it.” 

“_Ha!” _Thomas rolls of the sofa, almost hitting his head on the coffee table but he stands vigorously, wobbling only slightly as he takes a threatening step towards Napoleon. “It isn’t _worth_ it? Are you really going to lecture me on what is _worth it_?” 

Napoleon takes a step back reflectively, the force of Thomas’ drunken anger throwing him off balance like he’d pushed him. He wants to argue back, but he’s caught between a breath and the horrifying thought that he’s already too late. That Thomas will never listen to him. 

“Do you even know how I got in with the team? How I got in with Victoria? You think it’s a coincidence that you suddenly had to train a 19 year old nobody on Victoria’s orders? You think letting me into the business was just some pitiful street rat story?”

“I—“ Napoleon never really thought about it, truly. Just listened to Victoria when she told him to train the green criminal up, like the obedient dog he was. But Thomas looks impatient for an answer, so Napoleon ventures, “The usual? You got caught with something, Victoria offered a deal. That’s how Victoria works.”

Thomas smiles victoriously. “Not this time. I knew I was good. I knew I had potential. But I didn’t know how to get there. But I heard these stories, you know, about a certain _Lucien Salomon_. The Bernetti heist, the Eagle and Rose painting, the Long Island con. You were the fucking talk of the year man. Everyone wanted to get to you, everyone wanted to learn under the best. But no one could find you. You’re like a ghost, only popping up through rumours after the fact. Legends, or criminal kids’ bedtime stories. But I was smarter than the rest. I didn’t look for you. I looked for your _boss_. I knew the shit you did needed serious funding, and there were only a handful that could’ve been your handler. I knew she was it when I found her.”

Dread piles on dread as Thomas finishes his rant. Napoleon feels sick to his stomach and asks, horrified, “What did you _do,_ Tommy?”

“I proved myself, like I said. I proved myself worthy of being trained by the best. She saw my potential too, and took me up on my offer.” 

Thomas smiles, sharp and smug. It reminds Napoleon too much of Victoria. 

“All those jobs I shadowed you on? That wasn’t me paying off my debt, Boss. That was me _making it.”_

Napoleon staggers back. He puts a hand against the wall to remain upright. The world is spinning and _Thomas was in debt because of him. _

“And yeah, I was stupid,” Thomas continues, shrugging and frighteningly blasé. “I thought she’d let me go after a while. She always made it seem like the debt would be a favour here and there. Jobs with friendly prices, shit like that. I didn’t know impressing her would mean a lifetime under her. But you know what? I don’t regret a single fucking moment. Because I worked my ass off to be on your side, and you made me into what I am. There I was, the second best operative of the largest organisation of the world, not even allowed legally drink. I learned how good I could be in those years, and became _better_. And now you’re asking me to throw all that away?” Thomas smirks, pausing, and then says with finality, “With all due respect, Boss, but fuck off.” 

Napoleon tugs a hand through his hair, shaking. He tries to get a hold of himself but the alcohol in his system doesn’t help matters and he has the sudden urge to cry like he hasn’t had since he was a child. He takes a few breaths, slowly parsing the revelation Thomas shoveled onto him, making the deep guilt grow and grow until he can’t fucking deal with it anymore. 

He looks up, trying to say anything, but nothing comes out safe for a soft and pathetic, “Tommy, _please._”

Thomas crosses his arms, the confidence in his stance suddenly shifts back to anger, but with a hint of fear, like he’s afraid Napoleon will— Napoleon doesn’t know what. 

“It will ruin you, you can be so much better—“ Napoleon tries. “Don’t make the same mistake I did—“ 

But Thomas isn’t listening, he’s yelling.

“Stick to what you’re good at. That’s what _you _taught me!”

“_I was wrong!_” 

Thomas’s anger breaks into shock because— because Napoleon never yells. Never once. He couldn’t. It was too much like Anthony. He couldn’t do that to anyone looking up to him like he was worth learning from— but now he did, and the effects are horrifyingly effective. 

Thomas slumps down, looking exhausted, and just frightened enough for Napoleon to have to stop thinking about the expression on Thomas’ face lest it breaks him. 

“Do something that’s— that’s good for you,” Napoleon says, _pleads_. “Not something you’re good for. You’re not a tool, and I’m sorry for telling you you were. And, god, you never have to prove your worth to me Tommy. You don’t have to prove yourself to me, period. I am proud, but I always was. It’s _you _I’m proud of, not the things you’ve done in my name. It’s just you.” 

Thomas says nothing. The silence between them is frigid and heartbreaking and Napoleon knows he lost. He knows that no matter what he says, Thomas won’t hear it. It’s too late. He fucked up. He taught someone the exact things he’s been trying to unlearn but god, he doesn’t know how to get through to Thomas. Just like it was impossible to get through to himself. 

“Think about it,” Napoleon says, wistfully but without hope, “just… remember what I said now. Not what I said before.” He wants to— grab Thomas by the shoulders and drag him into a hug, but he’s painfully aware that that wouldn’t be appreciated. 

“It’s just you,” Napoleon repeats, but it sounds like a promise already broken. A sentiment that will never be believed, and as such, never really existed in the first place. 

Thomas stays silent. 

The next morning, he’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh man. This chapter and the Jemaine fight are the only things I've written that can consistently make me cry. There is just so much behind all of this. Napoleon perpetuating the circle his father started with him, realising his mistake too late to get Thomas out of it. The same way he perpetuated the circle of betrayal as well: not only had Napoleon's own father betrayed him, but Illya's father had betrayed Illya as well. Circles is a thing with Napoleon. He keeps falling back into patterns, even if the pattern isn't his own. The poor dude.


	13. Jemaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second favourite chapter. This one will mend your heart a little bit, which is probably something you need rn <3

Thomas’ disappearance leaves Napoleon slightly panicked, but not surprised. It’s a confusing set of emotions. 

Thomas took his gear, exactly half of the hotel fridge contents and the lonely bottle of vodka that had survived their bender yesterday night. All signs point to a voluntary exit. Napoleon would’ve done the exact same thing in his position. 

He drinks a glass of water for breakfast and ignores the hollow feeling inside him. It’s strange, to be the one left behind this way. So silent, isolating. With Jemaine it was explosive, with his father it was terrifying, and this is just— a whole lot of nothing. 

Napoleon knows that Thomas will be fine. He was right about that at least. He’ll find his place in the world. Victoria won’t waste time looking for him if she can spend it trying to catch Napoleon instead. Napoleon just wishes Thomas had realised he didn’t have to continue with this life. That there are more paths open for him than the one Napoleon had helped him build. 

The guilt and frustration of the night reattaches itself onto Napoleon like a shadow, shifting alongside him with every step. His arm twitches, wrenching his shoulder to throw the glass onto the ground for some sort of release—

Napoleon freezes before his fingers let go. He shudders, the echo of glass breaking far away in his mind. He carefully sets the glass down on the counter, before leaning over it for a moment. One heaving breath, a few seconds with his eyes closed, and Napoleon pushes away, marginally calmer. 

Thomas left the laptop on the coffee table, which at least says that he wants Napoleon to get out. The realisation brings a hint of much needed relief— he hadn’t fucked up completely then. Thomas doesn’t hate him that much. 

Time moves too slowly and too fast at the same time. Nothing quite seems to reach through the fog in his mind anymore; it's like Thomas stole all the wakefulness in the world and Napoleon can’t do anything but move sluggishly and without purpose. He doesn’t quite remember what he types up in Muse’s forum, but before he can think to reread the messages, his phone rings insistently, piercing the silence abruptly. 

“What happened?” Muse says, pointed and direct. The disappointment and anger Napoleon expected isn’t there. It’s just a clean request of information. Napoleon swallows down the reply he’d had waiting, _I ruined something else again. I fucked up. I can’t be human, apparently_, knowing viscerally that Muse doesn’t have interest or time in his self-pitying. 

He clears his throat and says, “We had a fight, or discussion, I don’t know. It ended— badly? He left this morning, I think. Voluntarily. Before I woke up.” 

Muse sighs deeply. Napoleon flinches at how exhausted she sounds. 

“When will you two learn that running away isn’t the greatest tactical approach?” she asks, but it’s mumbled to herself so Napoleon assumes it’s rhetorical.

“Okay, right,” she says after a breath, “out of the two of you, Thomas making a dramatic exit is the best we could have hoped for. He’s already got all his documents, so if he sticks to the plan, nothing has really changed. He’ll be taking the first train. This just means we have to keep to a tighter window.” 

Napoleon almost closes his eyes in relief at the refocus on the plan. He’s desperate for something tangible to put his mind to. “What do I have to do?” 

Muse is silent for a moment, the ticking of typing the only thing coming through the cackle of the phone. 

“Victoria asked me to trace you,” Muse says abruptly, giving Napoleon the beginning of a heart attack.

“Wha—“

“Which is a good thing,” Muse interrupts, “because that means she has no idea we’re on the same side, or at least doesn’t suspect enough to take drastic measures. Her request might be a test, one I’m going to use to our advantage. This means I need a bit more time, so our original plan to meet up was already going to go out of the window, but now that Thomas left, even more so.” 

“Alright.” 

“I’ve got your documents ready, and the little cash I could free up for you. You’ll have a tight budget, but I’m assuming you’ll find something to do.” 

Napoleon snorts, but it sounds hollow to his own ears. “I haven’t exactly lived luxuriously the past few weeks, I’ll handle it.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Muse says. “Your pick up will be earlier then. Today, instead of tomorrow.” 

“Where?”

“A small cafe in the La Défense arrondissement called Maximum. Your contact will be in the back, you’ll know when you see them. You’ll have 44 minutes from the cafe to get to the station. I can loop the cameras from that point on for 12 minutes precisely, but only where you’re walking so keep your phone on you so I can track you. Throw it on the tracks before you enter your train. You’ll have a choice between Austria, Scotland, Spain and Greece, so choose wisely.” 

Napoleon takes a breath, but Muse cuts through it. 

“Don’t tell me which,” she says sharply. “It’s better that way.” 

Napoleon hums in agreement, and says instead, “When?” 

“You have an hour to get there, I ordered a taxi for you while we spoke. It will arrive in 30.” 

Napoleon makes the mental math, but he comes up with barely 5 minutes of things to do in that time. He could go and get some food, but the slow creep of anxiety in the back of his head tells him to stay put until the moment he can’t anymore. He’ll live on energy bars and the sludge sold on international trains they claim is coffee. He’s done it before. 

“So this is it then?” Napoleon asks, when the silence drags on too long and the hollowness reaches a crescendo in nothing. “This is the last time we’ll speak to each other?” 

Muse is quiet for a moment longer, even her typing stilling in the shared realisation of what’s to come. “Yeah,” she says in the end, “unless everything goes to shit.” 

“Or if Victoria met some unspeakable end,” Napoleon adds. 

“Are you planning anything?” 

It would’ve been a good joke if she hadn’t said it with such suspicion. 

“No,” Napoleon says, honestly, and leaves it at that. 

There is a silence again, and Napoleon hates how this is so stilted now. He’d hoped that he’d at least was able to bring this to a nice end, but the memory of Thomas’ fiery confessions leading to the empty fucking hotel room have swung him far away from the things he wants to say. He’s uncomfortably aware that he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. It’s sickening. 

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Muse says, attempting the snooty way she used to say that; more a brag of her capabilities than any real need to be nosy. Now it’s just, uncertain and rote. 

Napoleon doesn’t believe her, but gives her a laugh anyway. “You’re welcome to, if the soap operas are boring that week.” 

Muse huffs a laugh as well. Napoleon appreciates the effort. 

“I thought you were planning to live a quiet life,” she says, and adds belatedly, “old man.” 

Napoleon hates this so much. “I’m… going to try.” 

“Ah.”

There is that fucking silence again. Napoleon is about to scream of frustration when Muse pushes through. 

“Look,” she huffs, “I’m fucking bad at goodbyes when I’m not drunk, so here. You already thanked me enough. I don’t need another. Remember you do owe me that favour, it is: ‘_talk to him_’. You’ll know what that means when it’s time. And— fuck. Take care of yourself, you great fucking idiot.” 

She hangs up before Napoleon can respond to any of that. Napoleon has a flash of whiplash before he laughs truly and fully, and maybe a little too long to be sane. It helps, though. She’s always had that effect on him. 

———

It must be luck, but when Napoleon exits the taxi, a stream of people walk into the Maximus almost as if Muse planned it. Judging the general aesthetics of the group, they are a gaggle of corporate workers hurrying to get an unnecessarily expensive espresso in their coffee break. Regardless, Napoleon is able to use them to filter into the cafe unobtrusively. 

The cafe itself is divided in two parts, the front room has a bar for to-go customers that draw most of the incoming morning rush, saving the rest of the populace from the chaos. Napoleon wades through, appreciating the lively look of the place; oak floorboards and furniture, dark green textured walls and small bronze chandeliers dotting the ceiling. Napoleon follows the path between the mix of booths, comfortable seating areas, and high tables with bar chairs, to what he assumes is ‘the back’ as Muse told him to. Though he isn’t sure what he’s looking for—

Ah. Of course. 

Jemaine has never been one for undercover gigs. He’s always had the impressive but ineffective ability to remain himself in any circumstance; attempts at acting verged from stilted to miserable, which counterintuitively resulted in him being sent out into the field more times than was probably responsible, but the hilarious fall out was always worth the risk. 

Here too, his lack of subtlety is eye-catching. Jemaine is wearing a dark suit with a beautiful floral patterned waistcoat that would, in any other circumstance, never fly under the radar. But in this case, his get-up lets him blend in easily between the business hipsters and fashionably exhausted students, so Napoleon has to commend him for that. And of course, he looks absolutely incredible. 

A waiter walking past obscures Napoleon’s approach so he has the chance to inspect Jemaine closer without him noticing. Napoleon notes the rigidity of his shoulders and the tense twitch in his signature nod to the waiter, paying for the cappuccino the moment it hits the table. Napoleon remembers teaching him that— no one wants to wave a waiter when having to make a quick get-away, and having local police breaking your cover over a cup of coffee is about the worst way to fuck up your reputation. Not that Napoleon learned that the hard way or anything. 

His shield disappears eventually, off to take orders from a table to the side. Napoleon has no choice but to continue his trajectory, almost misses a step when Jemaine looks up and notices him. 

Napoleon can still read him. Somehow he’d expected that skill to have disappeared the very moment he broke their friendship. Still he can sense the slight air of sadness hanging around Jemaine’s tense posture, and he knows he’s the cause of it. 

Napoleon sits down, keeping an eye on Jemaine’s expression, and is confounded by a notable absence: none of the hatred he expected shows on his face. Either Jemaine learned to mask better since he’d last saw him, or it just… isn’t there. No disgust, no frustration, just this calm yet tense presence, a battle of emotion shown by the position of his tie— just crooked enough to betray a distraction. 

“You’re on time,” Jemaine notes, clearing his throat. “Very well.” 

“Courtesy of Muse.” 

Jemaine nods, stirring his coffee, the spoon clicking against the porcelain. “Recovering okay?”

“Yes,” Napoleon says, “You don’t have to worry about me.” 

Jemaine’s face flickers with something bitter for a moment, and he says, “forgive me for asking.” 

Napoleon doesn’t know how he continues to fuck this up. He keeps his mouth shut, wishing he’d had a drink to hide with.

The silence draws out until Jemaine says, “Thomas left, I heard.” He seems to leave the ‘too’ implied, which is a mercy and a curse at the same time. 

“He did, smartly,” Napoleon says reflexively, and then sighs. This is not the time. “I mean— he did.” 

“What did you say to him?” 

“I told him to get out of the business, do something that won’t kill him, or destroy him.” 

Jemaine’s growing frown smoothes out and he hums, nodding. “That’s… actually good advice. One he’d never listen to, but still.” 

Napoleon swallows down the ‘_surprised, are you?_’ and says instead, “Yeah, I realised that too late.”

“But seeds will grow into trees, and will bear fruit with time,” Jemaine muses, stirring his cappuccino thoughtfully. 

“Nicely put,” Napoleon says, and licks his lips “I hope—“ he stills, his eyes falling away from Jemaine’s intense gaze. “I hope that what I said was enough.” 

Jemaine nods, and takes a sip of his drink. He’s still watching Napoleon, waiting on something. 

_Talk to him_. 

For saving his life, this favour should be trivial, but Napoleon feels like he’s confronting the worst of himself and has no escape. Even during torture, he could blame his pain on Bug and hallucinate his way into relief, but here, in a crowded Parisian cafe, imprisoned between oak booth walls and the smell of freshly ground beans, he’s got no choice but to face it. 

Napoleon wonders if this is what it would feel like to meet Illya again. If his eyes on him would also feel like burning embers, cataloging the failures and horrible mistakes he’d made in his presence. Maybe it would be worse, given the extent Napoleon had lost himself in those very mistakes, but at this moment, he cannot imagine being able to feel _worse. _

With Jemaine so calm and patient before him, every word Napoleon had yelled at him becomes almost tangible in contrast. The venom with which he’d broken Jemaine’s heart on purpose still lingers on his tongue, and he doesn’t know how he’d ever been capable of being that cruel. 

Jemaine takes another slow sip. He flicks his wrist to look at his watch. It feels like a pointed reminder. 

Napoleon remains frozen, terror clawing up his throat, but he doesn’t know what for. 

Jemaine showed up here for a reason. He’d never hurt him— he isn’t one for revenge. He’s here to give Napoleon a chance of redemption of some kind. Why can’t he take it? What the fuck is wrong with him? 

The noise of the cafe mutates into a persistent hum, enclosing his head and drawing tighter and tighter. 

“Slow breaths,” Jemaine says, and by god he looks _worried. _

Napoleon laughs wetly under his breath, realising painfully that this is about the worst reaction he could be having, but it is almost comical to see the contrasts between them. He’d never deserved the friendship he’d had in Jemaine. He doesn’t deserve someone who still can care about him after all what he did. But Jemaine does. Jemaine should have this kind of gentle care returned to him, and though Napoleon knows he can’t reach even such a low standard, he at least should try to make the first step. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Jemaine, I want to apologise for everything. For the way I spoke to you. For what I said. The lies and cruelty I slung at you. I— I am so sorry. You deserved so much better.” 

“I know,” Jemaine says after a moment. “I knew you were sorry the moment you contacted Muse. The man who broke my heart would’ve never asked for help.” His smile is sad for a moment, but shakes the expression away with a twitch of his head. “I also know I deserved better, but I’ve realised that you did too.” 

Napoleon frowns, confused, and opens his mouth to protest, but Jemaine holds up a hand to let him continue. 

“I’m not the right person for you,” Jemaine says. “I never was. Your words were vicious and cruel, but you spoke of some truths I needed to hear. In the end, it was necessary.” 

“I—“ 

“Lucien, don’t,” Jemaine says quietly but with steel behind it. “Listen to me carefully, this is important. I have thought a lot about this.” 

There is a pause. Napoleon doesn’t dare to speak. 

“Are you listening?” 

Napoleon nods. 

Jemaine relaxes a little. “Good. What I want from you is to find someone you trust. Someone you can learn to be yourself with at all times, and loves you for who you are and not what they perceive you to be. You need someone to see past your past your masks and cherish the heart within. Support you through the journey of self discovery while still loving the darker parts of you.” 

Jemaine pauses to take a deep breath, straightens from where he’d started to lean forward in his chair. He looks away for a moment and continues, almost embarrassed. “I… did not love you that way. I wanted to see your masks break to prove that I was the one that knew you had them. I wanted to see them shatter not to love what was underneath, but to prove to myself that I wasn’t the only one hurting. I believed that sharing that pain— hurting together, would be enough to— to— I don’t know. I’m not quite sure myself what I thought beyond that.” 

Napoleon feels light and… warm somehow. The sincerity of Jemaine’s words almost bring tears to his eyes. The complete honesty is like a sudden rush of air that overtakes his lungs and makes him breathe easier. He’s almost jealous at the way Jemaine is able to— to just do this, but mostly he’s impressed. 

And yet, he doesn’t want to agree with what Jemaine is telling him. That night— he was the bad guy, the villain, the horrible creature unable to be trusted with the hearts of those who cared about him. Illya was the first, then Jemaine, then Thomas. If what Jemaine is saying is true then— 

Then he doesn’t have any hope left. 

Because the person Jemaine is talking about: the person who would love him as he was, would cherish him. The person Napoleon _deserves_ is— is Illya, and that can’t be— No. 

No.

That means he’s ruined any chance of happiness for good, just because he was too fucking stupid to take it when it was there. 

He can’t believe this. That can’t be true. Sometimes it’s easier to accept that you’re a failure, than to accept that you have failed. 

But Jemaine is watching him with complete certainty. He believes this, truly, and Napoleon cannot bear breaking through that confidence by arguing his point. 

So he pretends to believe it, just for a little bit. He can pretend otherwise later. 

Jemaine must see his acceptance on his face, because he continues speaking without the tense undertone his voice had before. 

“So,” he says, “I propose the following. Find someone who will cherish you not despite your flaws but because of them, and I will do the same. Once we are happy and loved, we can go about forgiving each other.” 

It’s a generous offer, so much more than he expected, and it hurts to know that it won’t ever come to fruition, at least for him. He can only hope that it will for Jemaine. So he smiles and nods, tries not to feel like he’s lying when he says, “I think that’s an ingenious idea.” 

Jemaine nods back, taking a deep breath that Napoleon can only label as relief, and the slight smile that grows on Jemaine’s face has this hint of fondness in it that Napoleon will never be able to forget. 

“You seem to believe that we’ll see each other again then,” Napoleon says, clearing his throat to distract himself and move on. “I thought Muse—” he stills when Jemaine shrugs, so uncharacteristic that he’s shocked into silence. 

“I know the chances are slim,” Jemaine says quietly, “and I’m not prone to fanciful thought. And yet I feel that we all have been through so much, that it seems inconceivable to me that we won’t circle back to each other once we’ve found our place in the world.” 

“I commend your optimism,” Napoleon says, and he smiles to show that it’s genuine. “But don’t forget about the apocalypse.” 

Jemaine sighs, and says, “if one must,” with just enough annoyance to make it comical. 

Napoleon laughs, light and free. “I do have to give you this. If humanity is able to save the earth from an alien invasion, we should be able to have a reunion one day.” 

Jemaine’s eyes sparkle. “My point exactly.” 

Their comfortable pause is interrupted by the beeping of Jemaine’s watch, and Napoleon watches the switch from companionable to professionalism with fondness. Jemaine is quick to explain the kit he’d prepared for Napoleon, a get-away-from-Victoria travel pack complete with two brand new identities, clothes to fit those identities, provisions to last two days, and 600 euros in cash.

“I know it isn’t what you’re used to as outfitting for our regular jobs,” Jemaine begins, but Napoleon interrupts him. 

“It’s exactly what I need,” he says. “Are you and Muse set as well?” 

Jemaine nods, “We’ll be fine, and I might take the advice you gave to Thomas in better consideration than he did.”

Napoleon’s breath catches with surprise and then a wave of relief. “That’s— Yes, I do believe you are due a break from all this as well. Or better yet, a retirement.” 

Jemaine nods, thoughtful and considering. “I’ll think about my options on the train.” 

“Can you pass the same advice on to Muse?” 

“I shall, but I won’t put too much faith in it.” 

Napoleon sighs. “At least she’ll be safe behind her laptop instead of in the field.” 

“Indeed.” 

The watch beeps again and Jemaine stands, brushing his jacket back into place. Napoleon takes the suitcase and stands as well. They linger in silence for a moment, hesitant in a way it wasn’t a second ago. 

Jemaine steps forward, and Napoleon thinks he’s going to shake his hand, but he finds himself folded into a quick embrace. 

“I’ll see you,” Jemaine says, as he moves away as fast as he came. 

Napoleon nods, feeling pleasantly warm. The hollowness finally chased away. “Until then.” 

Jemaine leaves as he does, broad bulk weaving elegantly through the mass of people, like a strong summer breeze with a particularly proper sense of style. 

Napoleon watches him go, and then lets the conflicted waves of emotions crash over him as he starts his journey towards Gare du Nord, the very last step until he’s finally, truly, retired. 

———

In line with the air of positivity that Jemaine granted him, the Paris Station escape goes so smoothly that Napoleon only realises he’s yet to choose his destination when he’s standing in the middle of the central platform. The northern options are quickly rejected based on the pressing need to escape the grey and wet of the last months, but Napoleon doubts between Spain and Greece until the very end. There are pros and cons to each, long lists of arguments for and against. Victoria has less contacts in Greece, but she’s recently been moving east so there could be a chance that Greece will become more important to her. Napoleon doesn’t know. He can’t predict what Victoria is going to do. 

He’s running out of time and he doesn’t know what to do and—

Wait. 

It doesn’t matter. 

This isn’t supposed to be about her. This is supposed to be about what he wants. Victoria might find him, she might not, but in the meantime Napoleon needs to choose for himself. 

So Napoleon only barely slips between the closing doors of the train heading towards Madrid, just because he feels like it. He hasn’t had tapas in ages, he’s always wanted to learn how to make calamari well, and sangria might be the least damaging way to wash down everything he’d been running from. He’d get some vitamins through the fruit. Napoleon is trying to remember the exact recipe while the train leaves the station behind, and ignores the pang in his chest as he goes further and further away from Muse, Jemaine and Thomas.

The loose fit of the sweatpants feel strange around his skin. 

Napoleon shifts in the squishy cushions of his train seat— Muse’s way of saying goodbye comes in first class tickets, apparently. The stately buildings of Paris whizz past while he makes himself comfortable and tries to catch the exhaustion that has been haunting him for way too long. He’s got some time until he’ll have to decide where exactly in Spain he wants to start up this new chapter of life. But Napoleon is good at running, and there will be a moment that he knows he doesn’t have to anymore. 

He’d ran, still, from the first. Illya’s love the very first home he’d found since his youth, but now, Napoleon hopes that he’ll find his final destination. In one way or another. 

Napoleon isn’t drowning in the oceans of emotion in his mind, he’s too familiar with their tidal waves to be. He isn’t looking forward to confronting them in stillness, once the adrenaline of their escape has passed, but he knows he has to learn to swim one day. He has a chance to redeem himself, _for himself, _and Napoleon is vaguely curious on how much of a spectacular failure it will be. 

Napoleon presses his forehead to the cold train window, and wonders if he’d could get any alcohol in this damn train. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jemaine is the fucking best. I just want you to know that my headcanon for post DD is that Jemaine and Alexei eventually meet through Illya and Napoleon. They fall in love ofc. Jemaine will finally get the protective motherhen he deserves and Alexei will get someone who actually wants to listen to him and take him seriously, despite his more humoristic nature. They're good. Together they will bond as well on how much of an asshole Napoleon can be at times but that they've both graciously forgiven him as he's had a fucked up life and he's learned to be a better person.


	14. El Faro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two Headup's!  
1\. This chapter is an outsider POV, after it will switch back to Napoleon. Napoleon is still a main feature in it tho dw ;p   
2\. It is set during the Kaiju attacks, so there is talk about apocalypses and the way people deal with those (eg, medical supply shortages, ect.) There is only a few references here and don't go deeply into it, but I wrote this months ago so the recent circumstances were not apart of my considerations, so be careful with yourself!

“Are we supposed to take the paintings down as well, luv?” 

“We—“ Garcia hits her head against the underside of the sofa, interrupting herself with a groan. A cloud of dust flies up and she sneezes, and almost hits her head again. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Garcia grumbles. She shuffles back from under the sofa carefully, and dumps the three cat toys she’d been able to reach into the basket. Judging from how Tia loves to spoil Monet to death, she guesses she’s far from half way done. 

“Earth to Garcia?” 

Garcia turns to face James, who is balancing precariously on a barstool. She’s in front of one of Tio’s paintings, one of the larger ones. James would be able to use it as a mattress if she’d curled up a bit, though that doesn’t say much as she’s adorably small for her motor-jackets, short spiked hair and ‘i don’t give a bloody fuck’ attitude to all who don’t know her. 

“No,” Garcia says, and sneezes again. “No, Tia wants them to stay. They’re not going to fit through the stairwell anyway.” 

“Alright.” James jumps off the stool, landing dexterously right before Garcia’s feet. “You’ve got something—“ James reaches out and carefully brushes Garcia’s cheek. 

Bless her mother for giving her the gift of subtle blushes. Her skin doesn’t betray the sudden heat that flushes through her body at James’ touch. “Uhm,” she says, ruining any stealth she had, “Thank you?” 

“Dust,” James says by way of explanation. “You’re all good now, luv.” 

Garcia nods slowly. 

James quirks a smile and walks off like nothing happened, as always. Garcia is only able to get back to reality when James begins to open one of the kitchen closets and Garcia has to stop her before she dies by porcelain avalanche. 

There are three more shoulder touches, five more ‘luv’s’, and one moment of eye contact that either was intimate or the result of a desperate hallucination. By the time they realise there is a whole other closet filled with boxes upon boxes with filled god knows what, Garcia is ready to stomp down to Tia and inform her that she’s refusing to participate in this nonsense any longer. 

Beside the torture of being in this claustrophobic space with James, Garcia hadn’t been behind the idea from the start. After years of trying, Tia had finally conceded to moving in with Garcia, in her two bedroom apartment that is crucially on the ground floor. It had been a constant nightmare of waiting for the day she’d find Tia on the bottom of the health hazard masquerading as stairs that lead from the bar to Tia’s residence for 45 years. Even if she’d survived the initial fall, with the state of health care as it is, there would be no guarantee anyone would operate on an elderly lady. “The limited resources must be allocated to someone more likely to recover from the surgery,” people said soullessly. It is horrifying the amount of people who are capable of blasély refusing any medical treatment to people who are less likely to survive past the apocalypse. 

Garcia shudders in a moment of anger, then shakes it off. 

The point is that Tia won’t be climbing those stairs anymore, thank god. But the caveat to her agreement had been to make the apartment available for hire, and that she was the one to choose who would live there. Garcia had agreed without thought, desperate to jump at the opening, but she’s been regretting it ever since. 

Tia had gone completely bonkers — she shouldn’t listen to James so much — organising the rental process. The advertisement had hung next to the chalkboard for 14 days and she’d rejected as many applicants. For inane reasons such as ‘too much moustache,’ or ‘I have no need for someone who thinks himself king,’ or ‘he doesn’t like cats.’ Which Garcia doesn’t see any relevance to, Monet has already moved to her place and the tenant would have no reason to visit. As for the other reasons, Garcia doesn’t even try to make sense of those. 

Garcia doesn’t know if she’s relieved or annoyed by the consistent refusals. She hadn’t even expected anyone to come for the place. El Faro isn’t exactly known to be quiet with their nightly jazz performances. The music flows through the floorboards without discrimination and the decades of smokers below the window gave the place a constant smell of something burning. The age of the building might be charming for some, but Garcia can’t see how anyone would willingly submit themselves to windows that haven’t been able to close properly since she was born, and a fridge that will putter out at any moment. Shoddy insulation makes it a sauna in the summer and an icebox in the winter, and ‘eye catching’ abstract — or impressionistic, Garcia never remembers which — paintings are littered over all the walls. No tenant could ever convince Tia to remove them, not over her dead body. Or maybe even beyond that, Garcia won’t discount the chance on a proper haunting if anyone ever dared to touch the things. 

Oh, and of course: El Faro is situated on the edge of a rocky outcropping, overlooking a beautiful Spanish beach. The view of the ocean is positively ethereal, or abyssal rather— depending on your perspective, given that an extraterrestrial monster could appear on the horizon at any moment. 

So no, Garcia didn’t exactly expect a whole village to come knocking, and she struggles with the conflicting urge to keep strangers away and the need for extra income to keep the bar afloat as clientele moves further inland, away from the beaches. With each new suitor Garcia expects them to be the last, but Tia turns them away without hesitation, blindly trusting that the perfect one will come around eventually. 

“Don’t you worry, ‘cia,” Tia had said, “We are a lighthouse, we are a flame for the driftwood of the people, the meandering stragglers on the furthest of beaches. We are here to lead the lost searching their home. I will find us a stranded.” 

Garcia realises she’s been staring at a box titled “poetry journals 1990-1995” for far too long. James is watching her with a hint of concern and squeezes her shoulder. The room suddenly becomes very hot. 

“You’re exhausted, luv, drifting off like that.” 

“Rough shift yesterday. I’m fine.” 

James sighs. “Why don’t you hire someone to help? That one kid seemed—“ She stops and rolls her eyes at whatever face Garcia can’t help but make. “Why do I even try,” James mutters, and gives Garcia a push. “Go, get some yourself some tea and rest up before people start coming in. I’ll get all these down. I’ll ask Miss Cortez what she wants to do with them.”

“Tea is a drink, not lunch,” Garcia says in an attempt to deflect. 

But James doesn’t fall into the well trodden argument this time and gives her a look. It’s one of those Garcia has learned not to refuse, and as she fancies herself a resident expert on James’ various looks, she doesn’t argue herself out of that instinct. Instead she puts on a long-suffering huff, and leans in to brush a kiss to James’ cheek and say, “Thank you, Jamie,” and pulls back, feeling utterly too smug to berate herself. Because honestly, after all that temptation, she had to indulge herself a little not to go insane. 

Garcia is halfway through her lunch when James comes down the stairs with the last of the boxes. There is a tiny spec of bright red lipstick on her check, blending in nicely with the flush of extortion all over James’ face. When James rejoins her and begins the conversation anew, Garcia carefully doesn’t reach out to wipe it away. She quite likes it there. 

———

Garcia puts her hands against the bar and takes a few deep breaths for a moment. The bar is noisy and mostly full, as it’s wont to be on jazz nights. Of course, if it had been before, they’d’ve set up the podium in the courtyard and there would be about three dozen more people vying for a drink. She’d had a small army of waiters and bartenders to manage the masses, and a half a dozen people in the kitchen to serve seafood feasts. But now it’s just her, Tia, Pedro. And James, if you look at it the right way. 

Garcia clenches her jaw when a stab of pain shoots through her lower back — her period really showed up with the worst damn timing; the pill has been running low on stock again — and pushes off the bar top, hoping that movement will help a little. She doesn’t want to touch the painkillers they still have left because she has no idea when one of them will have the time or diesel to drive a larger city. 

James was right, of course, tending the whole bar alone is an impossible task. One she can’t ask Tia to help her with, as her knees aren’t what they used to be anymore. But Garcia just got so damn sick of hiring someone, just to have them save up their wages until it’s enough to move in-land. She got sick of saying goodbye to people, knowing that they’d made the right choice for themselves. It’s not like she can leave. Tia wouldn’t leave until one of the monsters caved the whole building in, and then she might steal a Jaeger to get back at the beast. And Garcia can’t leave this place either, it feels wrong to imagine a life without it. 

“Three gin and tonics and two ice tea’s for the old fisher’s club, and one whole bottle of vermouth for the depressed guy in the suit.” 

Garcia looks up to see Angelica hanging over the bar. Her head fleshly shaved— by herself it seems, though she’s beginning to get better at it — and her grin wide. In the low light of the room Garcia can barely see the blue bags underneath her eyes, except that she knows to look for them. 

“Angelica,” Garcia says waspish, having no patience for this, “You do not work here. Have a lemonade or go away.” 

“Your clients sure seem to think so,” Angelica says, wiggling a badge she’s pinned on her shirt. Garcia recognises the little fire tower logo. Angelica has crossed out the name printed on it with a black marker and wrote her own down. Angelica is wearing one of the old uniforms of the waitresses. 

“Where did you get that?” Garcia spits, and then realises it doesn’t matter. “You’re fourteen, even if I needed help, it’s against the law.” 

Angelica barks a laugh, shaking her head. “Like the cops are ever going to show up here. That’s bullshit. And you do need me, it’s getting busier every day.” 

The worst thing is: she’s got a point, about all of it. Ever since the Kaiju came, beach towns had slowly drained of people— the people who had the finances to make the journey on time. Now the cities are clogged up with migrants and even your whole life savings won’t be enough to get a place. The only option is getting a plane ticket or a train ticket, but less and less airplanes are being lifted in the air ever since the restrictions on commercial kerosine use. Even train tickets are getting more expensive by the second. 

This all means that any police force in their town have been relocated to the cities, as more and more people stubbornly try to find refuge there. The beaches have become almost lawless, the old touristic boardwalks now cesspools of drug abuse and violence. El Faro is lucky, no gang bangers dare to disturb Tia, who’d made herself into the grandma of the neighbourhood long before she had grandkids. Criminal activity is strictly forbidden in these walls. If you try anyway, it makes you an enemy of every single dirt-bag in the area, so people tend to listen to the rules. 

El Faro is once again a safe haven, and the citizens in the area have noticed. As more and more establishments close up or are taken over by the lawless, more and more people draw towards the bar for an evening in safety. A moment to forget how much the world is falling apart. Garcia is proud that she’s able to give them this, but the bitter reality is: she doesn’t know how long she’s going to last. 

Garcia realises that she’s really tired of arguing. “Fine,” she tells Angelica, “You’re hired. Tell the suit that he isn’t entitled to a whole ass bottle except if he pays four times the price, otherwise I can’t do the Young Ones’ favourites.” 

Angelica’s wide smile drops in an o of surprise, but she catches herself in seconds. “Whatever you say, Miss Cortez.” 

Garcia glares at her. “We’ll talk about wages later, and hours. I’m not going to let you do full shifts— don’t argue. Make another round for food, when you’re back I’ll have the drinks done. James is up in five minutes, if everyone’s got their shit by then, we’ll have a 15 minute break and we’ll talk further.” 

Angelica nods, completely professional all of a sudden, and Garcia watches her circle around the bar, making friendly but short talks, and rattling off the menu without needing to look once. Garcia makes drinks mindlessly, a sinking feeling in her stomach though she doesn’t quite know why. Her peripheral vision catches James setting up the sound system, and notices that the band have started tuning their instruments. The back-up vocalists have long left for the city, but James doesn’t really need them anyway. 

Garcia feels the intensity of the room change when people slowly start to realise that the show is soon to begin. The chatter lessens a little, watching the stage carefully. James isn’t bothered by their scrutiny, but she isn’t really bothered by anything. Drunken taunts slide off her as easily as the copious amounts of adoration she receives for her talents. Garcia doesn’t know if it’s because she wants to stay humble, or if she thinks the compliments aren’t truly applicable to her. 

Angelica slides up the bar again, her voice quieter than usual. “I passed on the dinner orders to Pedro. Depressed suit dude has changed his mind about the whole bottle, instead he wants one neat glass of vermouth and a whiskey on the rocks.” 

“Hmm,” Garcia looks over Angelica’s shoulder, giving the stranger a once over. His dark hair is slicked back with something, gel or grime. It just brushes his shoulders which seems a bit too long for his perceived style. Garcia doesn’t know much about suits— just knows James looks good in them — but she does know about drunken clientele. This is a man who once came from riches, but is now dead broke and miserable with it. 

“Keep an eye on him,” she tells Angelica. “He doesn’t look like the paying type.” 

“So no tab?” Angelica asks. 

“No, not until he proves himself.” 

Angelica nods and takes the drinks Garcia had prepared. Garcia watches carefully as she reaches the table. The man seems to shake himself out of his stupor and smiles at Angelica when she puts the drinks on the table. The smile isn’t leery, which is a point to his favour, but it doesn’t feel real either. Garcia rounds the bar and slinks along the podium for a better look. The man’s back is towards her now, and when Angelica leaves, he goes right back to his staring. From here she can follow his gaze, and is surprised to see that the man is looking at a painting. 

It’s one of Tio’s more accessible ones, in Garcia’s opinion. It’s called Lovers of the Last Night, titled after one of Tia’s poems of the same name. At first glance it looks like a sundown turned on it’s side: large red, orange, and yellow stripes forming a strange dynamic in a background of dark blues and purples. But if you look at it from the right angle, you can see silhouettes in the vibrant shapes. The splash of red might be the edge of a dress, the curve of orange might be arms around another. Garcia knows what it signifies. It’s Tio’s and Tia’s last dance before Tio had to go off and help the revolutionaries. Tia would have gone with him if she hadn’t been pregnant with their first child, so they were left to dance away their last night together, not knowing if Tio would ever return. The painting has that same contrast of melancholy, love, hope, and grief, all tacked into between the layers of colour. Or at least, that’s what Tia says. Garcia thinks she can only sense it because she knows the story. 

The man keeps staring at the painting. Garcia assumes it’s just because it’s across from him and he’s too wasted to turn his head. He doesn’t even react when James finally starts her set, her warm voice flowing like honey through the room; slow and smooth. The patrons are quiet all through the first song, appreciative of the bittersweet lyrics and the way she brings the somber notes to the forefront. 

_Don't you remember?_

_Oh, it's been so long..._

_Don't you remember?_

_The times we've spent alone..._

Garcia begins to clean the bar again, carefully doesn’t think about the possibility that James is singing about someone specific. 

_As the days go by,_

_we're further from the time_

_I can't go on without you_

_for my love for you is strong_

When she doesn’t have anything else to distract herself with, Garcia leans against the bar top, letting herself watch James for a moment. Resigned. 

James got her eyes closed, her hand cradled around the microphone stand. She’s swaying slowly with the beat, as if she’s replaced her wife-beater for a soul-full dress. She doesn’t need the get-up. She’d told Garcia once that for all the time her parents had put her in classical music training, she’d learned so much more about the art when she dropped out of school, packed up her shit, and backpacked through America, earning food and shelter by hopping from bar to bar and singing wherever they wanted her. 

_When you start to smile,_

_I'd run a thousand miles_

_to throw my arms around you_

_Girl I miss you every day_

Garcia takes a shuddering breath. She knows she’s fucked. She’s been fucked ever since James swanned into El Faro two months ago, asking if they had a singing position open. They had. The singer that had been with them for over a decade had just gone to the airport three days ago, someone who Garcia considered one of her closest friends. She’d been heartbroken, and then James showed up and she’d gone ahead and fallen in love with another wanderer. 

James was supposed to be gone already anyway— had gone, three weeks prior. They’d hugged goodbye and Garcia had shed her tears in her breaks for two days, feeling utterly miserable. Until she’d gone to El Faro early in the morning to open the doors, and had had a heart attack when she found James sitting on the doorstep with a contrite look on her face. 

“Bag got stolen,” James had said. “Don’t have my passport anymore, so, I’m stuck in Spain for a little bit.” 

“Oh,” Garcia had said, and had felt so completely and horribly relieved, even though she _knew_ how cruel that was. James is a traveler: she doesn’t stay in one place for longer than a month — the fact that she’d stayed a week extra had been a gift enough — and this is the equivalent of a bird getting its wings clipped. How terrible, to feel glad about that. 

James had wrung her hands and bitten her lip. “So, luv. You still got that singer’s spot open for me?” 

“Of course,” Garcia had said, a little too quickly, and ever since then, there hadn’t been a day without James. 

Now she’s just waiting for her papers to arrive from the UK, and who knows how long that will take. But Garcia knows she’ll leave one day, that her staying here is not voluntary, and she’s trying so fucking hard not to take advantage of that. Because that is what it would be, trying for more than the friendship they have. Where is James supposed to go if she doesn’t want it? She can’t leave the country with a passport, but there had been other things in the bag too. Saving for a new phone, headphones, a microphone and whatever else she’s lost, is hard enough with a job, but leaving El Faro meant getting another, and there is no reason to assume it would pay her as much as she deserves. 

James sings off the last note of the song and Garcia feels like she can breathe again. She looks away from James and her eyes catch the man in the suit, at the exact moment he turns around towards the podium. Their eyes meet for one single second, and Garcia sees her own sadness, grief, and _longing, _reflected in the stranger’s eyes. She shudders and looks away. Her whole body feels cold to the core, and in a moment of insanity she dunks her hands in the basin of hot water meant for the glasses. She hisses as the scalding liquid is a little too effective at warming her, but the shock is enough to shake off whatever the hell that was. She dries off her hands carefully— they’re only a little red, not actually burned, and tries to banish that dark feeling of wanting but not having out of her mind. She'd been doing very well pretending it wasn’t there, thank you very much. 

When she looks up, the stranger is gone. There is a neat stack of bills on the edge of the table, weighted down with a half empty glass. 

Garcia takes a deep breath, and finds herself hoping that the man will never show up again. 

But, of course, that isn’t how her life goes now, isn’t it. 

———

“Tia, of all people. Why does it have to be him? He’ll rob us blind before we can even blink. How do you think he’s going to pay his rent anyway?” 

Tia smiles, taking Garcia’s hand and squeezing it gently, but underneath her soft wizened eyes, there is the steel of a made-up mind. “He can help, fix things around the apartment, give us a new lick of paint. It’s dirty, ‘Cia, it isn’t like how it was.” 

“I’ll do it myself then—“ Garcia begins to protest. 

Tia cuts through it easily. “You do not have time.”

Garcia pulls her hand away so she can cross her arms. “I’ll make time! I just hired Angelica, it will be done.”

Tia sighs quietly, shaking her head. She takes a breath, and says so earnestly and yet mercilessly, “No, dear, you do not _want_ to.”

Garcia, who had her mouth open to argue her point further, abruptly closes it. Tia is right, of course. She turns her head away and glares at the wall behind Tia— there is a crack like lightning across it, the plaster flaking off a little every day. The tables have splinters and some of the floorboards are loose. El Faro is in disarray— not enough for the customers to notice, but Garcia has been in this building every day of her life, and she sees the discrepancies. Those little things that make it just off. 

Most of them are easy to fix. She should’ve done it months ago, and she doesn’t have any real excuses. The regulars would have helped before she could finish the question. It would be an honour, to them; helping resuscitate the place that has become their sanctuary. 

But there is an invisible barrier in Garcia’s mind. Even just thinking about it makes her feel the thrumming force of it. Within the noise there are whispering thoughts — _what does it matter. Why would you? It will be destroyed any day. Why put in the effort, just to see it break? — _she doesn’t want to listen to them. The only thing she can do is move forward, keep her mind today, and then the next. She can’t do that, while fixing up a place that will be unfixable in a matter of time. 

Tia has moved closer, and puts her warm, wrinkly hand on Garcia’s arm. “Let him help us,” she says softly. “Let him have hope.” 

Garcia wants to sneer, _Hope. What use is hope? The world is ending. We cannot stay here forever. You’re delusional, Tia. And I’m killing you by going along with it. _

But she can’t. She can’t shatter the little bubble of safety they have made for themselves and share with others, strangers and friends alike. And it would be hypocritical, because as much as she wishes she could just dump Tia in a car and drive far away, she knows it will break her too. Her heart has grown into the roots of El Faro. Fleeing would tear it out of her chest, leaving it behind to be swallowed by a monster. 

Tia smiles, reading the surrender in her expression before Garcia even had the thought. 

Garcia sighs, resigned. “Just tell me why _him_. Of all the others.” 

Tia’s smile changes into something more brittle, bittersweet, but her eyes are fierce and certain. “He was looking at Tio’s paintings the whole time he was here, and you know what he said? That they were one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. He belongs here, Garcia, with the paintings. You’ll see.”

_———_

Garcia doesn’t exactly meet the stranger — who Tia informed her is named Napoleon Dewitt— until it’s the day of moving in. That is not to say she doesn’t see him around, sitting in the corner, chatting with Tia more often than not. He even comes up to James, which has Garcia two seconds away from jumping over the bar to— she doesn’t know what. But there is this sense of strangeness around the man that makes him seem intensely untrustworthy. Maybe it’s the way he carries grief like a coat but can grin like he’s the sunrise itself. Or, used to be at least, his light dimmed but still deceptively bright. His smiles, however charming they seem to be for other people, don’t really fit on his face. Like he’s outgrown them, in some way. 

It confuses Garcia, and her hackles rise every time she feels his gaze on her. There is something too familiar about it, another invisible wall she does not want to hear. 

James reports back that she didn’t see anything nefarious about the man, which Garcia takes with a grain of salt, as James hasn’t had the greatest track record on that front. But in the two odd days it takes for the man and Tia to work out the details of the tenancy, Garcia isn’t able to find anything specific to sound her alarms. It’s just his general vibe, she supposes, that reminds her of some of the kids in the gangs. The smiling ones who use their puppy-dog eyes to get into places where they aren’t supposed to go, and slip watches of wrists like a magic trick. 

Or rather, those kids look like they might one day be this man. 

———

Tia wouldn’t have made a great realtor. Garcia follows along while Tia shows their new tenant around. Her enthusiastic but limited English often devolves into a Spanish ramble, while the man tries to keep up with gestures and facial expressions. The information isn’t exactly useful anyway, the tour stumbles into a family history as Tia tells stories about each centimetre of the rooms. Including the birth of her first daughter, in the middle of the kitchen floor. 

Garcia expects the man to eventually get bored of the rambling, but his apparent interest never shifts— or at least not visibly. He smiles and chuckles all throughout, asking questions that only spawn more and more stories. He even volunteers stories of his own, responding to the less-than hygienic birth story with details of his own conception, in a stolen convertible. It’s a story Garcia does not believe and wishes she can erase from her mind, but Tia is charmed, cackling and so comfortable, like the stranger is a long lost friend. He’s got her wrapped around his little finger. 

“I know it is not much,” Tia says, when they’re reaching the end of the tour. “But do you want it?”

“Yes,” he says— Napoleon says, Garcia has to remember that now, as he’s gonna live here for how god knows how long. 

“It is old,” Tia says, a little wry, but she smiles when Napoleon shakes his head, dismissive. 

“I know, but that’s good. I don’t like new— empty. This,” he widens his arms, gesturing to the worn out furniture and the paintings all about. “This feels lived in. It feels like a home.” 

Tia brightens, nodding effusively, but then her lips turn down a little, her eyes casting around the room and releasing a soft sigh. “Yes— it was.” She looks down, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. Napoleon reacts before Garcia can, speaking in low comforting tones, placing a gentle hand on her bony shoulder. 

Garcia steps back a little, strangely feeling like she’s intruding somehow. Which is completely ridiculous because this is _her grandma_, this is _her_ role. Not some charm-slick stranger who knows what to say to make the people around them dance. Frustration begins to brew underneath the surface of her apprehension. She waits them out, and after a little while Tia nods, collecting herself. 

“You move in, dear,” she says, much too fondly. “I make tea, for later.” 

Napoleon smiles and squeezes her shoulder as he steps back. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

Garcia keeps an ear primed as Tia slowly descends downstairs. But once she safely reaches the ground floor, Garcia turns to Napoleon, arms crossed. She feels reckless, seeing a stranger in the place that’s so personal, so close. All at once she can’t hold back anymore. “Nice trick, with the paintings.” 

Napoleon turns around, freezing mid step. “What?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind Garcia knows this is insanely dangerous. She doesn’t know what he is capable of. He could— he could murder her, for angering him. But the fear only fuels her, focusing so hard on not showing the slight tremble in her hands that she doesn’t consider her biting words until they’re already out. “Did someone tell you they were Tio’s, or did you just guess that they mean the world to her?”

“I— I meant it. I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t even know you were renting out.” Napoleon’s eyes are wide and he looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. But that’s so easily faked that Garcia almost wants to laugh at the attempt. 

“You have the look of a liar, Dewitt. I would say that I’ll be keeping an eye on you, but if you’re good enough that won’t matter anyway, right?” 

Napoleon’s face draws blank at that, a hint of hurt flashing through just before it’s shut down again. He takes a step back, like he’s intimidated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Come on, don’t patronise me,” Garcia snaps. “I know your kind. Sweet-talking an old lady, spinning the story just right to make people pity you. You have the world on your finger tips with a few words and a smile.” 

“I’m not—“ Napoleon looks away, seeming a bit frantic, if it wasn’t for the complete hardness of his face. “I’m not trying to—“ He cuts himself off again, shaking his head. Then he looks down, his cheeks flush with something— embarrassment?

There is a pause, and then he says, “Not anymore.” 

If he’s always been so easy to read, he’d be a fucking shit conman, so Garcia is more inclined to believe that this is all a set up, a carefully prepared character to make her feel safe when she’s anything but. 

“Ah, retired are we? We’ll see that before we believe it.” Garcia raises her eyebrows, letting him see that she’s onto him. “If true, how did that come about?”

His eyes snap to hers with a sudden, _cold,_ intensity. His fists are clenched and lips tight when he says, completely without inflection. “I’d rather not say.” 

Garcia’s stomach drops down, some ancient form of survival instinct ringing it’s alarms. He’s dangerous, alright. From the corner of her eye she gauges the distance to the stairs. If she ran, she’d be there first. She’d only have to get out of the bar and call for help, and the whole neighbourhood would come knocking. 

She is safe. She swallows; tries to breathe. It sure doesn’t feel that way. 

Napoleon’s breathing stutters, his once-hard eyes begin to flicker over her face. She can see him recognize the terror he’s caused, because his blank expression shatters with it. He staggers backward, one hand out, almost placatingly, trembling. He’s shaking his head, saying “God, I’m so sorry. I’m not going to— I’m not going to _hurt _you.” 

The way he says it— wrecked, and broken, wouldn’t have been enough to convince Garcia. But his whole body has folded into itself, making himself smaller not to be less threatening, but like he can’t hold himself up anymore. And his eyes— regret, grief, and _fear _spilling out of them unbidden. Like he’s afraid of himself. Afraid of his past. 

Garcia has seen many men reach for the bottle trying to escape who they once were, and now, faced with this pathetic parody of a human, she can’t help but recognize them in him. God damn it. She believes him. He won’t hurt her. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he did. 

“Fine,” she says, relaxing a little. 

Napoleon shudders in obvious relief. He’s got one hand over his face and he’s breathing heavily. 

“This isn’t America,” Garcia says, not kindly, but also not as viciously as before. “Your fifth amendment doesn’t work here. I need to know if you just haven’t led a bunch of dangerous men to our doorstep. I don’t need any revenge killings under my roof, I’m busy.” 

“No, no, nothing like that. If I hear anything, if I think they’re following me here, I’ll disappear, draw them away again.” Napoleon lowers himself onto the sofa, sagging into the pillow, hands in his hair. 

“So there is a they.” 

He huffs a laugh, bitter. It shakes his shoulders. “Isn’t there always?”

Garcia snorts. “Your concept of the world is not universal.”

“Guess not.” When he laughs again, it sounds more defeated than anything else.

Garcia feels her anger slipping; it’s difficult to hold that torch in the face of someone who’s been burning themselves for seemingly forever. “Anyway, if you fuck with us, you’ll have all local gang members on your ass,” she says, almost as an afterthought. 

Napoleon tenses, his gaze flicking to the window. “This place is gang territory?”

“No, it’s the only neutral zone,” Garcia explains. “The only thing all of them can agree on: you don’t bother Tia. Ever.” 

Napoleon swallows, but nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Garcia leaves him to it after that, feeling like she just stepped out of the sea. Like something about Napoleon had made the air heavy. Enough regret to choke on, Garcia thinks, shaking her head to herself. He’s going to be one hell of a drinker. 

———

That premonition turns out to be right, but drinking is not all Napoleon does. He actually keeps to his promises, putting in enough daily work to make the deal worthwhile. When he’s not sleeping or in a drunken stupor that could almost count as sleep, he’s between the people. Talking to anyone who wants to listen. 

Over the following days, he becomes a staple of the bar. He tells stories to anyone who knows enough English, French or Italian to be entertained. The regulars are joined by new clientele as everyone is drawn in by this strange, charismatic figure in a worn-out Armani suit and rubber slippers. They hang on his every word and pay him with drinks, mystified by someone who laughs loudly and treats them kindly, but whose eyes hold a deep sorrow that’s almost too much to witness. 

They leave his side with grand tales and a curious feeling in their chest, as if they watched someone fall from a bridge, unable to look away. Some take to heart, after listening to Napoleon, the true consequences of loss, and are never quite the same again. 

Garcia seems to be the only one that notices the constant lies spilling out of Napoleon’s mouth. He might be retired, but he’s certainly still a conman at heart.

Other than the stories, however, she really hasn’t got anything to complain about. He takes up the tasks Tia suggested with a surprising fervour, using the few sober morning hours to get some work done. 

Everything that used to be cheap and easy to get in a hardware store is not easy to come by any longer, but Napoleon always finds a way. Within a week or two El Faro feels a little more like home. Garcia bites on her tongue before she gives into the idiotic impulse to thank Napoleon, the moment she sees him repainting El Faro’s wooden logo. She has no idea where he got the golden paint from, but it shines beautifully in the morning sun. 

“Hey, Garcia, good morning,” Napoleon says in Spanish that should be more accented, as he only started learning it a week ago, when Garcia had mentioned in passing that he should be able to speak the language of the people listening to his stories. It had been meant passive aggressively, something Tia had given her a disappointed look for. She hadn’t expected Napoleon to take it seriously. 

“Are you going to fall on my head?” Garcia says in English, feeling petty. She knows it’s because she’s actually, begrudgingly, starting to like the guy, but his ego doesn’t need to grow even more— that isn’t actually true. It’s clear that Napoleon is wrecked with self hatred, and if Garcia is honest to herself, she’s pretending to be annoyed for a simple reason: the moment she accepts him as a friend, she has someone to lose again. 

“No,” Napoleon says, despite balancing precariously on the ladder. “I’m almost done.” 

With his tongue poking out, he focuses carefully on the last letter. At the last moment, he tips over his cartage and the gold paint spills all over his hands and clothes— not the board, luckily. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he swears, trying to rub it off and making it a thousand times worse in the process.

Garcia leaves him to it and begins to prepare for another day, her thoughts still slacking behind her, circling around Napoleon. 

Really the only complaint Garcia could have about Napoleon is his drinking behaviour, the way he mainlines the stuff like it’s his lifeblood. All of his remaining funds go to alcohol, and thought Garcia-the-bartender really can’t mind that too much, Garcia-the-reluctant-friend-maybe, can’t help but see red flags all over the place. For all that he’s a positive addition to the El Faro regulars, his misery is a heavy cloud around him— one he can turn white and pretty whenever people interact, but grows back into a thunderstorm the moment he’s left alone, or when he’s too drunk to keep the facade. 

He’s everything but alright, and Garcia feels herself becoming curious. Trying to find the real Napoleon within all the stories he tells, all the actions he takes. The real Napoleon loves art, he hadn’t been lying about that. And the real Napoleon loathes being lonely, but isolates himself anyway, maybe as a form of punishment?

Garcia shakes her head, trying to stop that train of thought from going too far along the tracks. It’s always a bad habit of hers, to dive into other people’s problems so she can drown out her own. She feels that it’s a part of the bartender job description, in a way. You wouldn’t survive a night shift otherwise. 

But her attempts don’t have much success, as the days continue. There is that longing too— something so close to Garcia’s heart that she can’t ignore it any longer. She must know. It definitely hasn’t ended well, it seems. If anything else, Napoleon’s tragic story might finally give her the push to never try with James. She needs that, because she can’t help but notice that almost another month has passed and the papers have yet to arrive, or at least, if they have, James hasn’t mentioned it— and Garcia doesn’t know what to think about any of that. 

So there it is, she’s going to end up diving into an ocean of Napoleon’s problems. A golden, sparkly, freshly painted Napoleon. Oh well, there are worse ways to waste her time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically my idea of this part is that in the last chapter, Napoleon writes himself out of the story his father, and then Victoria, had written for himself. He's literally removing himself from the centre of attention, no longer the Infamous Thief, but just someone in the background trying to relearn himself. What better way to establish that idea than letting the text itself mirror it? I hope you liked the strange approach ;p 
> 
> Napoleon will remain the pov of the rest of the fic!


	15. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon talks about Russia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcoholic tendencies/bad coping mechanisms, etc. 
> 
> Also warning for Feels, ;). You'll know what I'm talking about when you read it.

Spain is good. Almost too good— definitely too good. There are moments where Napoleon feels a strange form of contentment: listening to James’ beautiful singing; hearing the laughter he draws out with embellished stories of his past; Tia’s happy tears while talking about all the paintings in the bar, one by one. 

It has him reaching for the bottle more and more often. Those little bursts of happiness feel like a sheet of brilliant blue ice tempting him to walk further and further, until the shore is too far away when the ice inevitably cracks. 

And then there is the guilt, the despair, the knowing that it will never compare to those precious months in Russia. All of this is just a mere echo from what he walked away from. 

God. He misses Illya so much. 

He tries to keep it together, but in the peaceful routine of El Faro, everything spills over. He lives in a fugue state of memories and sensations. It’s almost like the cellar again— Illya so close yet not real, over his shoulder with every breath. He recognises Illya in the music James sings, in the beauty of Tio’s paintings and the loving stories Tia tells about him. He can’t deny his own longing, not when Garcia reflects the turmoil right back to him, her eyes always following James wherever she goes. 

Everything he’d been running from, he’s drowning in it now. In a way, it’s a relief to just let the waves come, not to struggle for breath any longer. He could be in the middle in conversation and abruptly remember the curve of Illya’s smile. Or working early in the morning to fix the podium stairs, and fall back into a touch-memory of a loving night. Illya is everywhere. 

Sometimes it’s too much. On those days Garcia narrows his eyes at him as he orders another drink, and another, and another, before lumbering up to his room and staying in bed for hours and hours, sleepless and remembering— sobbing. 

On days like that, listening to the aching tones of James’ voice is like a form of torture, but Napoleon does it anyway. Humming along to lyrics that slice like the flick of a whip with every sentence and every beat. 

_i need to see you_

_i need to see you again_

He imagines it, unbidden, the way Illya’s face would twist in hatred— or maybe he wouldn’t even be granted that. Reading Illya would be a gift he doesn’t deserve, of course Illya wouldn’t allow him to know what he felt. He’d be blank, neutral. 

_an hour's like a day_

_a day is like a year_

_when we're apart_

Napoleon sips on his vodka, needing the burn, because _fuck_. Illya’s anger would be nothing compared to the absence of emotion— of recognition. Napoleon imagines it, a sob stuck in his throat, to hear Illya’s voice void of infliction, saying, ‘I don’t know who you are.’

And how selfish is it, to be at the point of crying, at the idea that Illya wouldn’t remember him. Not now, not yet, but maybe three, five, ten years. He’d wanted that— or at least he thought he did, when he wrote that letter. But Napoleon has to be honest with himself, there is nothing left to pretend to, and he realises with a sick feeling that Illya forgetting him might break him for good. 

_don't wanna put up a fight_

_but you've been gone away too long_

Garcia comes by to collect his empty glasses, and in a split-second decision he grabs her wrist. She doesn’t flinch, she isn’t afraid of him. Not since that one horrible moment. 

She stacks the glasses in a smooth sweep of her hand that Napoleon is too drunk to follow, and says, “You’ve had enough. Go home.”

Home. 

_I don’t have a home, _Napoleon wants to say, but that would be a lie. He doesn’t want to lie anymore. He can’t help it sometimes, they slip out before he knows they’re not true. He still lies, when he tells stories, but that feels different somehow. It’s cathartic to use the skills he’s been taught to manipulate people, to merely trick them into having a good time. The stories don’t feel like lies as long as the people he tells them to only want to be entertained. He’s doing nothing wrong by giving them what they want, right?

Garcia doesn’t want to be entertained. So Napoleon tries not to lie to her. It’s hard. 

“I don’t want to go,” he says instead. It isn’t a lie. He wants to say here where the music hurts and the people are smiling, not upstairs where he’s alone and missing a presence beside him that will never come back.

Garcia sighs. “Fine, but quit the booze tonight.” 

Napoleon shrugs. He doesn’t care enough to protest. He’s sufficiently drunk to make it through another few hours at least. If he needs more, he has a stash prepared. 

He allows himself to drift off, drowning in the noise around him. There are so many people in this place, at all hours of the day. Not out of sorrow, or out desperation for an alcoholic escape, but out of a need for belonging. El Faro brings that for everyone, even Napoleon. The regulars recognize him by name, the cook, Pedro, has already memorised his favourite dishes, and even Garcia accommodates his growing need for companionship. 

He’s surprised not to feel guilty by the latter. Garcia runs El Faro with tireless efficiency and warmth, but in a different sense she seems lonely with her secrets. Napoleon understands, and he hopes that he’s helping, if only a little. 

El Faro feels like a home, whether or not Napoleon deserves it, and he doesn’t have the strength to deny it anymore. But with that acceptance comes a different fear— waiting for the moment they kick him out. 

He tries to be useful. He tries to respect the people around him. He’s started to learn Spanish, and joins Pedro in the kitchens as much as he can. To help, but also to learn, like he can erase all the reasons why they shouldn’t let him stay by loving everything with his whole heart. 

It’s a weakness, one he fully expects to be exploited some day, but he’s been running so long. He’s tired. 

The people become less like strangers every single day. He’s a part of their circles now, and this reminds him of Russia, of being welcomed into something he never expected to belong to. That’s maybe the reason why he stayed that first night, the desire to be allowed to _be_ with others again. 

And he is. It’s terrifying. 

He’d give anything to have Illya here— the Illya that loves him still, before he’d ruined it. The idea brings tears to his eyes. Illya would feel so at home. He’d adore Tia, the paintings, the people. He’d help Napoleon get James and Garcia together. They wouldn’t need their record player anymore, listening to their favourite songs being sung live every night. 

Napoleon is so sure that Illya would be happy here that he almost hates himself more for taking this chance from Illya than betraying him. 

During one of the drunken nights he’d tried to write a letter. Explaining to Illya that he’d leave, disappear into the ocean, so that Illya could come here and be at peace. 

But Napoleon knows he wouldn’t be happy like that. Not while the Kaiju still roam the earth. El Faro would be perfect for Illya, but first the world needed to be saved. Napoleon can’t do that. He’s failed Illya again. But that wouldn’t matter to Illya anyway, he’s found a drift partner by now, maybe found real love with them. He might save the world, Napoleon realises, his cheeks tear-stained. He might save the world without Napoleon, having never needed him in the first place. 

Napoleon doesn’t know where Illya is right now, and that distresses him. The television is broken, and he’s promised to fix it. He wants to. It would give him all the answers.

He doesn’t want to. 

Ignorance is better than alcohol sometimes. 

But when he’s sober, he hungers for it, the knowing. The void of information is consumed quickly by fantasy and theory, and Napoleon knows better than to give his mind that power.

El Faro begins to empty— or at least as empty as it gets. Most of the regulars slink out into the salty winds of the shore-side night, and Garcia nudges him towards the stairs before locking up the front doors. Everyone knows the backdoor is always open for any stragglers who need a warm place to stay on stormy nights. But the closing of the front is a signal to anyone lingering that El Faro has gone from a bar to a hearth— do not expect to be served, but if you remain respectful you’re allowed to stay. 

As a few homeless teens and exhausted fishers make rudimentary beds out of the wooden benches and stacks of blankets, Napoleon forces himself up the stairs, sparing one last look back for the television, gleaming in the neon light. 

He’ll fix it tomorrow. He’ll promise Tia to do it, then failing would count as a lie. And he really doesn’t want to lie anymore. 

———

Napoleon is barely half way down the street when he hears footsteps behind him— running. Angelica vaults over the railing of the stairs and miraculously doesn’t break her ankle landing on the bottom stair, before falling into step with Napoleon.

“You’re going to Magpie,” she asks, putting her hands clasped behind her back, head tilted inquisitively, like a mini-detective. 

“That code name is stupid,” Napoleon says, “You need something too?” 

“Hey, he’s selling junk on the streets, he’s gotta feel cool somehow,” Angelica says. 

Napoleon doesn’t miss how she’s avoided his question but lets it go. He’ll get the answer soon anyway. They’ll continue to walk in a relatively peaceful silence, with Angelica casting him curious looks every once in a while, like she’s putting clues together with every snap shot she makes. 

Napoleon takes a swallow from his flask, and can see Angelical take a mental note of it. Frustration boils up and he breaks the silence; just to feel less like he’s under a microscope. 

“Why are you working at El Faro? Don’t you teens have something better to do?”

Angelica looks faux-consideringly and says, “Why are you renting a place that could be Kaiju breakfast any moment and drinking at 10 am? Don’t have men like you something better to do?” 

“Smart ass.”

“Hypocrite,” she says, with a smile. 

The rest of the walk continues in silence, but Angelica keeps her eye on their surroundings instead of Napoleon, as if the interaction gave her all the answers she needed. Napoleon doesn’t really know how to feel about that. 

They find the Magpie on the corner of the boardwalk, his stand tied with a heavy chain around a broken streetlight. From the distance Napoleon can already make out television sets, stereos, an assortment of phones and the long cable that dozens of flash drives dangle on. The bounty today seems to be solely technology, which is unsurprising as Napoleon had bought all the working tools from him a few days ago. 

“The American returns!” Magpie says, flashing crooked teeth yellowed with smoke. He’d refused to hear Napoleon’s name last time, as everything had to be in code. “And he brought a friend! What do I call you? And can I interest you in some shows-on-a-string? I’ve got BBC shows on this one, or some American reality TV right here.” 

“Not right now,” Angelica says, “but you can call me Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock? Clever girl. If I find a magnifying glass I will let you know. Are you sure you don’t want one of the movies, at least? I even have DVDs if you don’t have a computer anymore.” 

“Well,” Angelica says, looking sideways at Napoleon. “I would, but the television is broken, so I can’t actually watch them.” 

“Oh no, that is so sad, but I can sell you this here, a whole new television!” 

“We just need to fix it,” Napoleon interjects before Angelica can say anything. 

“Ah! I have everything you need,” the Magpie exclaims, and then turns around to surveil his pile, “Probably.” 

In the end the necessary pieces are found and Angelica makes up for her snark by helping to carry the satellite disk to El Faro. Napoleon gets to work immediately, aided by Garcia, Tia, James and Angelica, the first two mostly through watching with various amounts of judgement, and the latter two being of actual use, installing the disk on the roof. 

“—Back, back!” Napoleon yells in the general direction of the window. “You just had it!”

“We what?” James shouts from above. 

“You. Almost. Had. It!”

Garcia snorts. “There should be a smarter way to do it, but I don’t want to tell them because this is too amusing.”

“Shut it Garc—“ Napoleon stops when the screen gives a flicker of static and then it comes alight in colour and movement. He fiddles with a few buttons, finding the volume dial just in time for the first lines of a news broadcast. 

“It works!” Napoleon yells, victorious, to inform the roof-crew, and he receives the appropriate amounts of elated whooping— understandable, because they’ve been at this for at least an hour. 

Napoleon turns to send a grin to Garcia and finds her to be reluctantly smiling back. “I told you I would do it.”

“Eventually, I said,” Garcia says. “I was only doubting whether it would be this century.”

“I will have you know that—“

“Shh!” Tia makes a sharp hand movement at them. “I’m listening!” 

Napoleon turns back around to follow Tia’s gaze, now focused on the drone of Spanish in the background. He’s come far enough to be relatively conversational, but the rapid speed the news anchor is speaking is a challenge to keep up with, only occasional phrases and words springing into meaning. 

“To announce a new— to join the fight in the — We will now go to a — with the pilots and their—“ 

The news studio disappears to be replaced with a seemingly live broadcast of a press room. All cameras are pointed to a long table absolutely filled with microphones, but the seats are still empty. Napoleon is about to look away to start cleaning up the mess of tools and wires he’s made when—

Three people walk into the room and take a seat behind the microphones. 

Three people. 

_One,_ an older man. Stately, Russian, flat face but keen eyes. He addresses the crowd but Napoleon can’t hear what he’s saying because—

_Two._ A woman. Her face is familiar but not in the sense that he’s seen her but in the sense that he’s imagined her so many times and it’s not that far off because she is—

Three. 

Three. 

_Three._

Illya. 

Garcia is shouting something. 

Napoleon collapses on the floor. 

Everything goes black. 

———

“I did not know you had panic attacks.” 

Napoleon blinks his eyes open slowly. There is a headache pulsing in his temples and he’s never been so thirsty in his life. 

“Hello to you too,” he grumbles, and throws a half-hearted glare at the figure of Garcia swimming into his view. 

She smirks a little, unapologetic, but there is a hint of concern in her eyes. She’s sat on the edge of the mattress and— oh, he’s in his room. He has absolutely no memory of how he got here. 

“You were kind of out of it,” Garcia says, probably in response to his obvious confusion. “Almost as if you were drunk, but I know you didn’t drink today. James said to let you sleep it off— she knows about stuff like this, you know. Are you still panicking?” 

“How would I know,” Napoleon says, sitting upright slowly. “Never had one like that before. Usually I can keep myself functional.” 

“Well, I’m glad you couldn’t this time.”

“What?” 

Garcia punches him on the shoulder. “Hey, I know you hide shit from us and go back in here feeling miserable and alone whenever you can’t pretend you’re not falling apart, so this is your body saying you can’t do shit like that anymore. You gotta trust us.” She leans over and passes him a glass of water. 

“Thought you didn’t want to hear tragic stories,” Napoleon says after taking a sip. 

“Even I can get curious,” she says, and then looks away. “Besides, you’re a friend.” 

“Am I now?” 

“Shut up.” 

Napoleon takes another drink of water and obediently keeps still. 

“Oh fuck you,” Garcia says. “Come on, talk. Illya Kuryakin, is he your story?” 

“You could call it that.”

“So, spill.” 

Napoleon looks at her— her intense expression of warring worry and curiosity; the deep dark brown curls of her hair contrasting beautifully with the azure blues of the painting behind her. Both of them, Garcia and the painting, are sights that have become so achingly familiar in so little time that they bring a rush of peace whenever he looks upon them. He remembers the first moment he came here— alone, drenched, cold and completely lost, and realises how far he’s come, how much he’s come to feel safe here, found a harbour in El Faro, and a part of him wants to push her away because what if she — they, all of them — realise how much he doesn’t deserve this happiness when they learn what he did. 

But the majority of him is too tired to carry it all alone anymore. So he spills. He spills all of it. It takes him five minutes of talking for his eyes to tear up. Ten for Garcia to curl up next to him and hold him tight. An hour before the talking stops all together and he can only sob. 

“I miss him so much, Garcia,” he chokes out. “I loved him. I _love _him. I loved who I was with him. I was so happy. I didn’t deserve it but he made me so fucking happy.” 

“It’s okay Napoleon,” Garcia murmurs in a soothing tone. 

“It isn’t. It really isn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever be.” 

Garcia shushes him, holds him tighter, and that’s how James finds them later, tangled on the bed, half-way napping, underneath the golden rays of the sunset. 

“Budge up,” James says, and slips in behind Garcia. 

Napoleon falls asleep grieving, tired, and his heart broken into pieces, but so irrevocably and utterly _safe_. 

——— 

Life goes on in El Faro. 

There is the arrival of a new wave of people after a few warehouses down south burn down and leave the people squatting inside them without a place to sleep. Garcia suspects some street gang to be behind it and Napoleon hopes he nods at the right intervals as she rants on about them, her Spanish too fast to keep up with for him. The frustration fuels her need to organise, and within three weeks everyone either has a crowdfunded ticket inland or has been offered a place to stay around El Faro. 

Napoleon throws himself in the chaos with abandon: seeing Illya seems to have opened up a renewed tidal wave of repressed emotion and for once he doesn’t want to drown it in alcohol. He spends his nights _aching_ for Illya, grieving the ‘what could have been’ for more than one train ride away from Russia. He gives it the time it deserves— the pain it deserves, and finally allows himself to look for Illya in everything he does. 

The new arrivals means there are more people to talk to and more information to be gathered. Napoleon trades stories for stories; from the measly belongings the people bring with them he gathers old magazines, paper articles, every scrap of Illya mentioned in the past weeks. In return he tells them about him; about his loyalty to the world, his love for his mother, the amazing drawings he could make. The people, the children especially, are in raptures. Illya is known by every single one: children know Jaeger-pilots the same way they would’ve known celebrities and athletes before the world fell apart. Whenever there is a moment of rest, Napoleon finds himself watching the news feeds with an intensity that only Tia can break through. But even in those moments of obsession he isn’t alone, as the crowd of children watch right along with him, badgering him for more information. 

Grief and loneliness have always come hand in hand for Napoleon, and it is strange and bittersweet to experience it differently now. A part of him wants to delve back into the darkness, isolate himself as a part of him is so certain that he deserves to be alone. But whenever he comes close to trying, someone inevitably comes upstairs and drags him — quite literally — out of the darkness. 

“There is too much to do for you to sulk around,” Garcia tells him, once, but Napoleon recognises their efforts for what they are. They don’t want to lose him. Every time he realises this the world seems to be a little bit too heavy to carry. Like there are disappointments lurking in every corner. But most of the time, he’s nothing but grateful for it. 

“Do something, make something, earn your trust of yourself back,” James tells him, with a knowing look on her face. “Don’t think everything you do in the future will be a fuck up, because you fucked up before. Start small. You made the children cry of laughter today, that’s something.” 

James performs daily now, keeping the spirits high since everyone has lost so much. The days end with her silk voice, the people tired but satisfied, and Napoleon a part of his heart but glad for it. 

“Love burns eternal,” Tia tells him softly, one of such evenings. “That is how you know it was true.” 

“It was,” Napoleon scrapes out. “It was. I just knew it too late.” 

Tia smiles— her smiles are a balm to the soul and this time is no exception. “The stories you tell. The memories you’ve got. They are the precious ones. Treat them like jewels, Napoleon. Guilt is a thief. Do not let them be stolen.” 

Napoleon squeezes her hand. “I won’t.” 

“Come. Tell me something about him.” 

“He was— He _is_,” Napoleon starts slowly, thinking. He’s told so many things, he’s shared so many memories. But there is always something else to tell. “He isn’t like the other Jaeger-pilots. Everyone has their own motivation to— to do what they do. To sacrifice themselves in such a way. Some do it out of honour for someone they love— out of revenge, anger, to punish the creatures that are ruining our world. Others do it because they want to be heroes, they want the fame, the riches, they want to prove themselves the strongest, the most worthy, even if they have to take up against an alien race to earn it. Illya wanted none of that.” 

Napoleon takes a deep shuddering breath. His eyes are burning and his cheeks are wet, but he _lets _it. He squeezes Tia’s hand tight; she’s the only tether to this reality anymore, the rest of him is gone— is in Russia. All the moments Illya smiled at him, at someone else; every moment when he was drawing, looking so carefully, so intensely and capturing every detail; every exclamation of joy, sign of interest. Illya is different— Illya is more.

“So many of us have lost hope. Some people think we deserve this. That we’re paying for our sins and humanity is too ugly to be saved. And I think I used to think that too. I didn’t think there wasn’t anything salvageable about this world. That even if we’d survive this disaster, then we would destroy each other in the next. Everything seemed so purposeless and there was no reason to believe we could be better— that I could be better. Not until I met Illya.

“Illya sees the beauty in the world. He’s experienced so much ugliness, he’s been beaten down and hurt more than he deserves, and somehow he came out kind. _Gentle, _if you let him be. He draws, you know. That’s why— the paintings. I saw him in them. They’re different in style but—“

“Yes, Juan—“ Tia nods shakily, “He could see it too. The beauty. In everything.”

“_Everything,” _Napoleon repeats empathically, with a hint of bewilderment because still it seems to— unreal, to be able to see so much beauty in the world. Illya had always been able to draw away the clouds of darkness, that insistent fog that hangs over so much, and reveal the little details in a flower, or the particular way someone smiled. Excluded from his peers from a young age, he’d always been an observer, and he turned that into his art. “I— I loved him for it. He showed me how to enjoy living again. Not only because he saw something of worth in me when I didn’t, but because he taught me to see worth in the people around me, the things around me— _in the world._ I’d been trying to forget it because it hurts— it hurts to know that we don’t deserve this. That people are suffering and beautiful forests and cities and towns are being destroyed for no reason at all. But Illya didn’t shy from that pain. He fundamentally believed that we are worth fighting for. That there is a beauty in this world worth protecting, and that is why he is a jaeger-pilot. He’s loyal to the world, loyal to the cause, because he thinks we deserve it and that is—“ 

“Beautiful,” Tia says, smiling.

“Yes. Yes it is.” 

This is not to say it’s all bittersweet. Some days are just bitter. 

Those days where even Garcia’s pointed glare can’t stop Napoleon from falling back into the dangerous embrace of alcohol. It is just— the yearning, the guilt, the _hatred. _Sometimes he can’t handle it. 

People come in and move along: enough of a rotation to have incomers who don’t know about the unofficial rules around Napoleon and free drinks. Some remain and learn it— magnetised by the aura of El Faro, but others seem to shy away from the air of ease that Garcia works so hard to maintain. 

Even in the darkest of moments, Napoleon feels for her. She seems utterly inexhaustible, but often those who are able to walk through hellfire daily are those most in need of rest. They just got used to the burning. Napoleon wishes he wasn’t such a burden to her; that his failure to recover with more ease results in another concern on her shoulders. And yet, inevitably, when he feels his worst, he ends up speaking to her. 

“That was your last for tonight,” Garcia snaps over the music. “There is no one left you can swindle for a drink, Caesar. The regulars know the deal.” 

Napoleon shrugs. He’s drunk enough, staring at the hard wood surface of the bar top, half-way fascinated with the glimmer of condensation on his empty glass; the rest of him listening to James. 

_Take away my eyes_

_Take away my ears_

_Take it all away from me_

He smiles, swaying with the soulful rhythm. 

_Take away my arms_

_Take away my knees_

_You can blame it all on me_

Garcia places a glass of water in front of him. Napoleon stares at it. His throat is tightening. 

“Come on, drink up and go to bed,” Garcia says, surprisingly gentle. Napoleon doesn’t understand how she’s still able to. It’s been more than a month since he saw Illya first— and still he can’t seem to get any further, falling back into misery at random intervals. He’d hoped for some stability by now. Even just a little. For the sake of his friends. 

_I'm a mess and I will always be_

_Do you want to stick around and see me drown?_

_Fuck, I'm about to lose it all_

“Garcia,” Napoleon says, his lips numb and uncooperative. “Don’t be like me.”

Garcia huffs, barely audible over the music. “Not planning on it.”

Napoleon shakes his head and has to hold on to the bar-top from the dizziness the movement causes. “No, I mean—“ he tugs at her wrist and points it towards James. “I— I fucked up— my one chance to be happy. Don’t be like me. Don’t wait.”

Garcia freezes, and then yanks her hand away, her face shuttered and blank. 

_I'm a drunk and I will always be_

_Beggin baby take my hand before I fall back down_

_Fuck, I'm about to lose it all_

“I know, I know,” Napoleon mumbles, “It is— terrifying. But _please._ Learn from me. You— you deserve to be happy.” 

“I can’t,” Garcia hisses. 

“You can. She— The way she looks at you. You can’t waste this—“ 

“_I can’t.” _Garcia grabs a rug and starts violently cleaning the bar top. “She isn’t here by choice. I can’t— I’ll never take advantage of that.” 

“What?” 

“Her papers were stolen. She can’t leave the country even if she wanted to, and there aren’t many places able to… support her skillset, so,” Garcia halts, and takes a deep breath. “I can’t be the one— I can’t risk—“ 

Napoleon reaches for her hand. “But— are you going to pressure her if she says no?” 

“Of course not,” Garcia spits. 

“Then what…” Napoleon shakes her head, thrown by the fear in Garcia’s eyes. 

“It isn’t— It isn’t my story to tell,” Garcia says, “and hers isn’t the only story there is. I’m lucky— I have a job that still pays, a roof over my head. I have power in this town, through the respect that Tia has over those assholes. People like that— people like me, have taken advantage of that. Trading—“ Garcia trembles. “Trading work, safety, a place to stay for—“ 

“But you won’t do that. She knows you wouldn’t. She trusts you.” 

“I _can’t,” _Garcia says. “I want to, but I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to believe that she— She’s a traveler. She doesn’t settle. She doesn’t want to stay, no one does. So, as long as she can’t, I can’t.” 

Napoleon lowers his head and squeezes her hand. 

“Don’t go meddle with this, please,” Garcia says. “If you have any respect for me at all. Don’t— don’t ruin this for me.” 

“I—” Napoleon sighs, and then finally nods. “Why is happiness so hard for us?” 

Garcia lets out a relieved sigh, and then snorts. “There are monsters coming out of the sea, Napoleon. Happiness is hard for everyone these days. Besides— it's not so bad, around here.” 

“Not here, maybe,” Napoleon agrees, and then taps his head. “But there?” 

“Just go to bed.” 

“If you go as well.” 

“Fine.” 

James’ voice trails behind him as he goes.

_Oh baby, won't you come back for me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are the feels? Are there many of them? Please feel free to yell. It has been Torture having to wait to show this to yall.


	16. Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for references to suicide (/self-sacrifice) ideation, but it's solved quickly. 
> 
> Secondly, I'm sorry for the coming pain.

Napoleon walks into the bar rubbing his eyes and yawning— his sleep had been comatose right up until the sounds of furious Spanish had unceremoniously dragged him back to the waking world. He’d put a pillow over his head and tried to grasp the lingering tendrils of unconsciousness, but it had been a hopeless endeavour. 

Garcia’s head snaps up when he enters, a fury in her eyes that is so uncharacteristic that all his exhaustion is erased in an instant. After a quick look, Garcia seems to decide that his presence is not a source for more anger, but also not a reason for less of it either, and she goes right back to yelling her lungs out at— Tia?

Yes. Tia. Who merely stands there, arms crossed with a determined look on her face. 

“You are burning air, Garcia,” she interjects when Garcia is forced to pause to take a breath. “You won’t change my mind.” 

James and Angelica are standing on the other side of the room, and Napoleon circles towards them, leaving a wide breath around the location of the conflict like it is an actual fire. 

“What’s going on?” Napoleon murmurs when he’s close enough. Both James and Angelica seem unusually grave, and Angelica grimaces.

“They’re fighting,” she says. 

“I can see that.” 

Angelica doesn’t rise to the bait, just continues. “They’re fighting about whether Tia is going to evacuate.” 

“_Evacuate?_” 

James grabs the remote from the counter and turns the television on. It immediately displays the usual national news channel they often watch for Kaiju-updates, but this time there is more of an update than Napoleon ever wanted. There is one heading their way _fast_. 

The noise of the television has the double function of cutting through the one-way yelling, and Tia takes the opportunity to turn around and hobble out of the building. 

Garcia throws her hands up and groans. 

“She doesn’t want to leave,” Napoleon says, inanely. It isn’t even a question. Of course Tia would leave El Faro behind over her dead body— quite literally, in this particular case. 

“If she dies during the attack she’d probably find it a poetic ending,” Garcia is saying, with a manic chuckle. 

Napoleon moves towards her and puts a hand on her arm. “How so?”

“Tio died here during a storm. Heart attack.” Garcia wipes away angry tears with a rough movement of her hand, before squeezing her eyes closed and making a pained noise. “I can’t— I can’t let her do this. I can’t lose her too.” 

“I know,” Napoleon murmurs, aching for her, and rubs her back. After a moment Garcia shakes herself and turns around, finding another target for her wayward energy.

“Angelica! What are you doing here? Go back to your parents and leave with them!” 

The determined look that crosses Angelica’s face is scarily similar to Tia’s only moments before. “I’m staying with you.” 

“Angelica, I swear to God, I can’t have another fucking idiot to deal with—“ 

“They’re already gone.” 

Garcia freezes, all the wind abruptly ripped out of her sails with those words. 

Angelica continues viantly, her expression going from determination to complete blankness. “My parents. They’ve gone. Two months ago.”

“What— where have you been this whole time?” 

“You pay me enough for a place to sleep, that’s why I got the job,” Angelica answers with little to no inflection. 

Napoleon grows cold. He knows that voice. 

“You’ve worked here for— for longer than that, you’ve almost been here for three months” Garcia says, shaking her head slowly. It is so obvious that she’s trying to make sense of it all, but has little capacity left in the middle of this emotional storm. 

Angelica snorts abruptly. “I knew they were going.” 

“… and you knew they wouldn’t take you if they did,” Napoleon concludes. 

Angelica catches his gaze and her eyes flash with a humour so dark it’s like an oil slick— the kind a child like her shouldn’t know, but will never be able to wash herself clean from. “Well if God created the apocalypse, then it makes sense not to save your degenerate kid from it, doesn’t it? Their excuse was that they wouldn’t have money for food and living space for all my siblings in the city, but you know how it is. They just didn’t want to take their disappointment with them.” 

“Fuck,” Garcia breathes, takes two wide steps, and envelops her into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know for sure—“ Angelica hesitates for a moment, and then shudders— all of her deviance going with it, and she hugs back. “You’ve already done enough. I was fine, so telling you was just a risk I didn’t need to take.” 

“Angelica, nothing that you would have said would lead me to do the same thing your parents did. _Nothing._” 

“It’s one thing to know that, and another to believe it.” The last word is barely out when she cracks, her breathing becoming heaving sobs. 

“It’s okay,” Garcia says gently, but with a steel certainty behind it, and holds her tight. “Whatever happens, I’m not going to leave you behind. I’m not going to leave _anyone_ behind.” 

Tia choses this moment to slip back into El Faro, a basket of bread and fruit in her hand. “The Montavelle gave breakfast,” she says, and huffs disapprovingly at Garcia’s sarcastic snort. 

“Hope it isn’t poisoned, this might be their last chance to rob this place blind.” 

Tia ignores her, laying out the food upon the counter and addressing Napoleon and James instead. “The Montavelle has always been kind to me. He might be a bit of a troubled one, running that tricksy group of his, but I’ve known him since he was a child and he was so lonely back then. It is good to see him have friends.” Tia sets her hands on her hips when she’s done, and nods with satisfaction as she regards the quite honestly luxurious breakfast. 

James and Angelica look to Garcia with something like a wordless request for permission. Napoleon’s stomach rumbles loudly. 

Garcia heaves a sigh and sits down, grabbing a croissant and says, “We’ll need the energy for packing.” 

At this everyone sits down at the bar and a slightly uncomfortable silence stretches, the air still static with emotional tension, until Garcia, two croissants later, cuts right through it without preamble. 

“If you’re staying Tia, I will stay too.” 

“You cannot stay,” Tia replies without hesitation and completely nonchalantly, “Angelica needs you.” 

The words fall like lodestones and poor Angelica seems to bow under them. Garcia’s hand grasps around the bar and tightens until the fingers go white. “That is cruel.” 

“It is not cruel, my dear,” Tia says, and then adds gently. “I have found my peace with this.”

“I haven’t!” Garcia exclaims. “I need you as much as Angelica needs me. _You can’t do this._” 

“I am sorry, Cia. But I do not have it in my heart to leave Tio behind.” 

_“He’s not here anymore!” _

There is a pause as Garcia and Tia stare at each other, both going equally pale, until Tia bursts out into tears, covering her hands over her face. She’s trembling and shaking her head. “I can’t live without El Faro, Garcia. This is the only thing I have left of him. I’m not strong enough.” 

“I don’t understand, Tia. How can you do this to me— to us!” Garcia snaps, furious, with a heartbreaking undertone of desperation. 

Napoleon understands. Napoleon understands it completely. This is a woman so twisted in grief that she’s unable to make the right choices, and it is almost disorientating to stand on the other side of that. To watch someone destroy themselves for the sake of something that has been lost. 

He begins to speak before he can think about it. “You know what,” Napoleon says, his voice deceptively gentle. “If you stay, I’m staying too.” He smiles. “It’s been a good ride— Okay no, that’s a lie, but El Faro has been my home when I needed one. I’d rather end it here, with people I care about, rather than running again and ending up drunk in a ditch somewhere.” 

There is a moment of stunned silence— Garcia freezing, Angelica gaping, and Tia peaking her red-rimmed eyes between her knobby fingers. 

But then James nods and says, “I’ll stay too, then. I’ve been running long enough.” 

Garcia grasps James’ shoulder and squeezes hard. “No, no _please._” She sends a furious look at Napoleon. “You— you can’t do this.” 

“I’m staying too,” Angelica says, shoulders straight. “I don’t want to live in a world where I’ve left someone behind. I don’t want to do that to anyone.” 

Garcia slumps down, hands in her hair and shaking her head. “You goddamn—“ She takes a deep breath and then looks up at Tia. “Well, I guess I don’t have any reason to go anymore.”

Tia’s sobs quiet slightly as she removes her hands from her face and looks at each of them, her expression to reveal bone deep exhaustion, the kind people usually hide away. “You would steal an old lady’s peaceful end?” She shakes her head and then, she smiles. “Bastards, all of you.” 

Napoleon places his hand on Garcia’s arm. James and Angelica do the same, all watching Tia in silence. 

“Alright, fine,” Tia says, with a wavering voice. “We can go. But the mountain ridge is far enough.” She seems to steel herself, and says, low and strong: “If I cannot be here, I want to witness.” 

Garcia’s eyes tear up, more out of relief than anything. “That is— that is something, at least.” 

“It’s probably our best bet anyway,” James says. “We don’t have enough fuel to travel far, so going high and hoping a Jaeger comes quickly is our only choice.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Garcia stands up, nodding erratically, and Napoleon can almost see her put herself back together piece by piece; the fragments only holding together out of sheer willpower. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And Napoleon if you insist to stay anyway I will feed you to the Kaiju personally.” 

Napoleon snorts at the image. “In that case, I’ll come with.” 

Another silence falls again, only broken by the occasional sniffle from Tia. 

“I guess that means we’ll have to find a way to carry the paintings down, doesn’t it?” James asks, sending a smirk to Garcia, who suddenly lightens up a little— lips twitching back at James. 

“Well, of course,” Tia says, utterly serious. “We need all of them. And we cannot forget Monet.” 

Napoleon had mostly forgotten about Monet. The cat never left Garcia’s place,rather never left Tia’s room. He’s maybe seen it twice on the edges of its periphery. He seemed to have decided to sleep through the rest of his years. Napoleon hopes he’ll make it through the chaos of evacuation. 

“I hope we’re going to fit in the car,” Angelica ponders. 

Garcia places her hands on her hips and says, grim. “We’ll make it fit.” 

And they do. The following hours are a frantic dash for supplies and, most importantly, the paintings. They use carpets and tarps to protect the canvases for the elements and James manages to tie the largest ones on top of the car, with Tia watching on worriedly, her hands tense around the breakfast basket that now houses a yet sleeping Monet. Napoleon tries to think about what they’ll need to last after the initial attack and raids the kitchen. He, very consciously, does not put any alcohol in the car. 

Some regulars come to check in, asking if they’ve got a way to flee, and they end up with a few helping hands to take down the most challenging of paintings. Some neighbourhood youth come running with drift wooden planks and nails, and help board the windows and the doors. It is a resurgence of aid to a place they all wish would survive the disaster, and Napoleon thinks that leaving it behind after seeing this will be easier for Tia. In the end, it is not the place that matters, but the spirit it brought to the world. That is a spirit she can continue to bring wherever she goes. 

When the sky starts to grey and heavy clouds loom over an increasingly vicious sea, everyone seems to realise that the time has come to go. Napoleon takes one more careful look through El Faro for anything that they’ve missed. He finds a few more batteries, and some tools that could be handy, but tucked behind the stage, in between boxes of cables and stage lights, there is a brown leather bag. Napoleon grabs it by the shoulder strap— it’s small enough to fit between their supplies, he’ll check later whose it is— but then the contents fall on the floor. 

Napoleon swears and leans down to quickly gather everything, when he realises what he’s looking at. Loose papers, filled with musical notations and lyrics, James’ name in the corner of each. Between it all there is a small booklet with a Great British insignia on it. A passport. 

“Napoleon,” Garcia calls out from outside. “We’re going.” 

“Coming!” 

Napoleon opens the passport to confirm his suspicions, and sighs through his nose. He tucks everything back into the bag, this time holding it carefully, and makes sure that neither James nor Garcia see him putting it in the car. This is an issue that will have to be solved post-Kaiju. If there is a post-Kaiju.

Angelica and James are already in the back, and Napoleon waits beside the car, watching Garcia and Tia stand beside El Faro in a moment of silence. 

The wind is picking up more and more, and a low rumbling rolls over the beach, as if foreshadowing a monster’s roar. The fabric of Tia’s dress is whipping around her ankles almost viciously, and Napoleon is fairly sure it’s only Garcia’s hand on her shoulder that keeps her upright. She looks fragile, for the first time since Napoleon’s known her. 

There is a creak of wood, and Napoleon twists around to see a beach cabin tilt and then break apart. It must have been rotten through already— the pier hasn’t been in any state of use for years — but it triggers a sense of urgency. 

“We have to go now!” Napoleon shouts, in the hopes they’ll hear him over the wind. “It’s going to be dangerous here soon.” 

Tia takes a step back to El Faro, making Napoleon’s stomach sink for a split second, but after she’s put a hand on the door for a last moment, she allows Garcia to lead her to the car. 

Napoleon opens the passenger door for her, and squeezes her arm as she passes. She allows him to take Monet and he gives it to Angelica to hold on her lap. 

“We have the memories, the jewels,” he says gently. 

Tia nods, eyes closed and shivering. 

Garcia gets into the driver’s seat and Angelica and James scoot to the side just enough for Napoleon to be able to fit in the back, squeezed between two paintings on either side. As the engine revs up, the sky breaks and rain pelts down upon them, thick drops hitting like hail on their roof. Garcia swears and turns on the wipers, who try their very best but are virtually useless. 

“This is going to be fun,” Garcia says tersely, and turns them onto the road. 

The drive is about two hours, on a good day. But with the storm upon them and the mad-dash of evacuation enthralling the whole area, it doesn’t take long before they’re merely inching their way up the mountain. It seems like they’re not the only ones to have the idea of an elevated escape. 

The mountain has a nickname among the locals; the ant-hill, as it is one of the staple tourist destinations and therefore crawls with people in the summer months. Of course, seaside visitors have left the beaches to turn to dust and Kaiju-fodder, so nature had been able to reclaim the mountainside without anyone there to crush weed and flower alike underfoot. 

Napoleon had gone up there with Angelica once; she’d been so smug to show him all the little pathways and hidden alcoves between the chaos of the wild. Now he suspects her knowledge of the place might be less a simple interest, and more an escape from a family that wanted her to be gone. 

He wonders if anything will be left of it after this. 

Because the ant-hill has made itself worth of the moniker twice over tonight. On every surface there are clusters of people, some in cars and others trying to find cover beneath outcroppings of rock. There must be hundreds, maybe even a thousand people, huddled together on top of this mountain, unable to flee further, becoming witnesses to the destruction of their home. 

Garcia finds them a place on the very peak, and by the time the engine is turned off the rains have lessened to a mere drizzle. The winds however, maintain their strength, and they whip across their faces as they exit the car, all seemingly needing to see below without obstruction. 

Napoleon looks down the mountain and sees more people exiting cars and caves. Someone is starting up a fire for warmth, and yet others lie down tarps to sit on. They’re going to be here for a while it seems. 

As they wait, at first no one speaks— it wouldn’t do much good anyway, the wind stealing their words before they can be heard. But the storm makes a turn, pushing on further down the beach instead of inland, and after another sound becomes clear— the murmur of voices. Quiet, at first, but then louder, as everyone rediscovers their voice. 

“Look!” a young child yells out, “There!”

Napoleon scans the horizon, and just when he is about to disregard it as the mistake of a fearful kid, he sees it: Something moving underneath the water. 

The waves have been growing with the wind, but now within the gigantic rise and falls of the sea, there is a part that doesn’t flow along the same rhythm. A large oval shape, growing larger and larger, and heading directly to the town. 

A hand grasps his, and Napoleon squeezes as Tia sends him a tearful look. 

“Thank you,” she says, “For making me go.” 

Napoleon holds on tight. “We need you here. _She _needs you here.” 

“I know, it is just so—“ 

Tia is interrupted by a scream, and then another. Terror encompasses the mountainside as the Kaiju raises out of the water. Even from their vantage point, the monster’s size is unimaginable, and relative to the small buildings of the town, it swallows all hope of anything near it surviving. 

They must be far enough, Napoleon thinks desperately to himself. Even for a beast like that, they must be high enough. 

The monster takes its first step onto the beach, and Napoleon can imagine the pier collapsing under its claws. From this distance it's hard to see what creature it resembles, but it crawls out of the water first on four limbs, and then raises itself up onto two, and _roars. _

The wall of sound shakes Napoleon to his core. Half of him is expecting stones to start falling. It lumbers further away from the sea and starts to— stamp around. There is no other word for it. It attacks the tiny buildings around it with a ferocity that is simultaneously terrifying, heartbreaking and somehow bitterly hilarious, like an eldritch toddler having a temper tantrum. Napoleon hopes, inanely, that it doesn’t have an even bigger mother who’s coming as well. 

“They must be coming soon right, the jaegers?” Angelica asks, between the screeching and growling. 

Napoleon vaguely remembers EU protocol being covered in one of the classes on base. Their teacher had mocked the west European coast of 5 hour average response time — compared to the 2,5 hours of the Russians — from the detection of a Kaiju out at sea, and the arrival of a Jaeger, but now Napoleon can’t feel anything but grateful for it. They’ve been alerted to evacuate more than three hours ago, and they must have known earlier, prepared the Jaegers even before the evacuation was called out. Napoleon has no idea how to tell Angelica it could take another two hours, so instead he nods, and ignores the sick feeling in his stomach. 

They continue watching, and all gasp in horror as one, when the beast grabs a car off the street and throws it careening into the sea. 

“It’s so different than what you see on the telly” James says, after god knows how long. “They always show the big moments, you know. Tall buildings falling; monuments being ripped apart. But they never show this— just, rampage, slowly, one bloody house at the time.” 

“Even the real apocalypse is too boring for television,” Angelica says mutely. 

Napoleon wants to protest, for Tia’s sake more than anything else. They’re watching the destruction of a home to so many people, and the memories tied to all those manifestations of life. But it is boring, as horrible it is to admit. The creature is just tearing everything apart without discrimination, and the more you watch, the more it feels distant. Like the mind can’t comprehend this much power and drive for destruction, and after the novelty has worn off, your mind just tunes out. 

It seems like more people lose interest in watching, and though every once in a while someone cries out when a place of relevance is trampled, the murmur of conversation starts up again, and a few more fires — even whole bbq’s — are being lit, and the smell of meat catches Napoleon’s nostrils, realising with a start how hungry he is. 

There is something incredibly absurd about eating a sandwich on the wet ground of a mountain, while contemplating the inherent challenges of destroying a beach town that stretches for miles, as the beast walks up and down, leaving no house standing. 

It feels completely appropriate then, when Tia begins singing. 

Her voice is strong and sure, and James and Garcia stop murmuring together and fall silent, listening. Despite the cavernous roars of the creature and the echoes of destruction, Tia’s voice carries, the wind picking up the melody and casting it below, until even people a ridge below them quiet and turn around. 

The song is one Napoleon knows; she’d sung it only a few days into his stay at El Faro, but back then he hadn’t known the significance, never mind been able to understand the text. It had been the anniversary of Tio’s death, and despite not learning that fact until later, Napoleon had been able to recognize the sorrow inside the way she sung. It had been all encompassing, reminding him of another song of love that had been haunting him for months. 

But now, without the help of a microphone and the safe enclosure of El Faro, the entire meaning changes— it is still a song of grief, now for more than only Tio, but for the entire town. But here, a single voice calling over the mountains, drawing more attention than the roar of the monster, it becomes a song of power too, of the determination to continue loving, despite the pain that inevitably comes with it. 

At the end of the song, the wind suddenly picks back up again. Tia continues, singing louder, almost shouting out the last lines, and then she abruptly turns and cries out in joy—

The roaring blades of half a dozen choppers, carrying a great silver jaeger through the valley.

Tia’s exclamation is followed by tens, hundreds more, as the mood on the mountainside completely flips on its side and people cheer like the pilots inside can hear them do it. 

Napoleon finds himself slumped on the ground, frozen in place. He’d known it wouldn’t be Illya— the Red Peril is stationed too far away to even be considered, but even knowing that it isn’t, it can’t be Illya, to see the gargantuan machine wrecks Napoleon with a single thought: 

He could’ve been there. 

It could have been him in that cockpit, preparing for a fight between titans. He’d had the scores for it. He’d had the capability— the interest, the motivation. He’d been good at it, even in such a short period of time. And he’d had a partner; drift-capability like theirs is rare and the instructors had _noticed_. 

If he’d never been a criminal— if his father had elected the normal life with him, instead of casting him aside, then maybe, maybe he—

“I could have been there, you know.” James shakes him out of his thoughts in the most disorientating way. 

Napoleon opens his mouth to ask, but then notices she isn’t looking at the Jaeger, but down the valley instead where a virtual horde of emergency vehicles is careening down the highway. 

“I was studying to become an EMT, before all this,” James says. “But I— I fucked it all up. Got myself into trouble, the kind that gets you kicked out fancy scholarships. Couldn’t deal with the humiliation, so I hopped on a plane. That’s all I do. Fuck up and run.” 

“You seem to have done well for yourself here, with the singing,” Napoleon says, trying to catch up the conversation. James has drawn pale beside him, and the familiar characteristics of guilt are etched in every feature of her face. 

She snorts. “What use is singing, in all this? I could’ve been— I could’ve been useful. Now I barely know how to help anyone.” She clenches her fists and shakes her head. “You know what's the worst of it? I could’ve changed it, been better. I traveled for a while, let my voice bankroll me enough to live a nomadic life, but every time I inevitably fucked up again. Got kicked out, got drunk, broke someone’s heart. You name it, I’ve bloody done it. So then there came this moment, right, when I thought I should pull myself back together. Some mentor had given me another chance to finish my degree. I just had to go back to London.” 

James takes a breath, and in the moment of silence another cheer goes over the mountain as the Jaeger is dropped to the ground. The Kaiju is further along the beach, to the south, but it has noticed the arrival of something new to destroy and its roar is a thunderous force. 

James continues as the two titans begin to approach each other on the beach. “I was in an airport when the first Kaiju rose out of the sea. By the time they let us go, I regained my status as a coward, and fled again.” 

The first hit of the Jaeger’s fist is too far away to hear, but Napoleon can imagine it, and the screech of the beast that follows it is far from inaudible. Everyone falls silent once more as they watch the two figures, made almost tiny by distance, fight in earnest. 

In the end, it doesn’t last more than ten minutes. Ten breathless minutes, but it feels too short either way. The Jaeger takes a few well placed swings, and crushes what could be considered a knee, and the beast is left screaming, useless and raging, until the machine twists its head off in one clean twist. 

The roar of victory from the mountain is nothing compared to the dying shriek of the beast. 

Napoleon grabs James’ arm and speaks over the ruckus. “James. You found your use here. Don’t destroy yourself over this.” 

James narrows her eyes. “Don’t you see? I can’t trust myself. I’ll run again, I’ll fuck up again. I thought you of all people would understand.” 

“I do, I do.” Napoleon presses his lips together and tries to find the words, recognising the cagey fear in James’ eyes with urgency. 

“Look, I know about the passport,” he begins, and James draws even paler and snaps her hand back. “I found it today, but that isn’t the point. What I’m saying is that you could have run long ago and— now, right now, do you feel the urge? Do you want to escape?” 

“Of course not, but you know that too. It’s about the inevitable. I don’t want to, but I will,” James snaps. 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? I mean, El Faro is likely in shambles, we have no idea where we’ll sleeping tonight and all the comforts we’re used to are gone. Garcia has just accidentally adopted a teenager it seems, and Tia is going to be a wreck. Are you sure you don’t want something easier than all this?” 

A fire sparks in James eyes and she grabs Napoleon by his shirt, hissing, “How dare you—“ 

Napoleon breaks out in laughter, which stops her short. 

“You won’t leave,” he says, trying to dampen his smile. “You won’t leave her, or any of them. If you don’t want to leave now, you just won’t ever let yourself. Don’t you see? You made it. You found it. You found your place.”

James’s face, which snapped out of anger into confusion, slowly softens into something else— revelation, _hope. _

“Talk to her,” Napoleon says emphatically, squeezing James’ hand that is still holding onto the fabric of his shirt. 

James blinks, and then lets go with some contrition, and nods slowly. “Yeah,” she murmurs, seeming a little lost. “Yeah. I will.” 

“Jamie.” Garcia is walking towards them, her eyes flickering from face to face. “Are you okay?” 

James shakes herself and gives a soft chuckle, and then turns to Garcia with a wide, honest, smile. “Course, luv. Napoleon said some things I needed to hear, that’s all.” 

Garcia freezes and pins Napoleon with a glare. “Is that so.” 

Napoleon holds up his hands placatingly, but can’t help but smile as well. There is a light feeling in his chest. It doesn’t seem to help Garcia with her suspicions. 

“Nothing bad,” James says quickly, “I promise.” She seems to hesitate for a moment but then gently takes Garcia’s hand. “Come with me for a sec? I need to— I’ve got some things to say, honestly.” 

Garcia’s eyes widen but she nods quickly. “Of course. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it toge—“ She stops herself, but James picks it up seamlessly with a grin. 

“Together, yeah. That’s what I’m hoping. Come.” 

Garcia allows herself to be led a little away from their spot, and Napoleon watches them for a moment, before joining Tia and Angelica by a campfire in the process of being built, under careful instruction of them both, helpful or not. 

The worst of the storm seems to have passed, but the fire is still a welcome centre of warmth so high up the mountain, and people are magnetised around it. Napoleon almost feels like it's more crowded than it was before the fight, until he realises it actually is: some of the ambulances hadn’t gone into the town after all but diverted towards them, and there is a flurry of activity below as the emergency personnel pass around water and shock blankets. 

Napoleon stands to make sure Tia is well supplied, when he comes back James and Garcia are back, sitting close and sharing secret smiles. 

“Napoleon! Do you want a sausage?” Angelica calls out, motioning said sausage pierced on a stick towards him. 

Napoleon is about to laugh and refuse — the stick in question doesn’t seem all that hygienic — when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

**Sender unknown: **

** __ ** _You have to leave. Now. _

The phone almost slips out of Napoleon’s hand as he processes the words. 

_If I could find you. They will too. _

The texts keep coming. 

_Look. You’re on Spanish television. _

**Unknown sender sent a link. Open?**

Napoleon’s hands tremble as the link sends him to a news stream: a thin Spanish woman is speaking rapidly into the camera with a familiar cliffside in the background, and there— in the corner, Napoleon sees himself looking at his phone. He looks up and spots the camera crew, a few paces away from him, interviewing a local teenager with grave intensity. Napoleon steps to the side, out of the camera’s view, but he knows it's too late. 

**Sent to unknown sender:**

** __ ** _Who are you?_

**Unknown Sender: **

** __ ** _An old friend_

Napoleon curses, annoyance and terror clambering for victory inside of him, but he stops short when the next text arrives. A dancing banana emoticon. _Muse. _

**Unknown sender:**

** __ ** _The eagles got the queen. They’re after you too. _

It hits Napoleon like whiplash. The CIA got Victoria. 

Muse is right. If she can find him, and they got Victoria, staying here isn’t safe. He has to go. 

He’s been in this bubble of safety for so long that he’s become a stranger to these things. He doesn’t want to be in this world of coded language and secret agencies anymore. He doesn’t have a choice. He’d promised Garcia not to let ‘them’ follow him here. The kind of them was never specified. 

Garcia, Tia, James, Angelica— they need to be kept out of this. They can’t— they can’t know the person he was. They’ve already given him so much. He can’t ask for more forgiveness. To burn them with the realisation what kind of creature they’ve trusted all this time. They can’t know what he’s done. 

Later, Napoleon would barely remember the next few hours. If he regrets anything more than Russia, it would be the way he’d said goodbye— that is to say, he didn’t say goodbye at all. 

Standing on the precipice of his old life and his new as they threaten to collapse into each other, Napoleon hears himself tell some excuse to Garcia and just...walks off. 

Runs. Again. 

It’s the only thing he’s good at. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need it, DD has the happy ending right there ;) The next chapter is also going to be Tragic, but I hope the last scene will make up for all that and again. Yall already have the happy ending at ur disposal whenever needed!


	17. Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big warnings for emotional abuse, manipulation, control, etc. More details below if you need to check it out before continuing.

It’s different, this time. After Russia, he’d still had the delusion of freedom. Still believed that this was the only life he wanted— could want. Napoleon knows better now.

To have to lose everything again— to be running again— is unbearable.

El Faro had been his home, and he’d grown dependent on it so quickly. Without it, Napoleon’s life falls into fragments.

Bars. Inns. Motels.

He’s in Paris but he doesn’t know how he got there.

New names. Faces.

So many strangers.

Hungry. Desperate. Alone.

Pacing, up and down the Seine, wondering if it wouldn’t be better just to drown.

—

There is a tearful conversation. Apologies by payphone.

_I’m sorry. I miss you all so much. _

“It’s okay, Caesar. We’re just glad to know you’re still alive. When are you coming back?”

_I can’t. I can’t. They’re closing in. _

Napoleon runs again. Trains are strange places. He hides a flask in his boot because he’s learned.

Winding streets. Wandering, hiding. Trying to fit in.

_They’re closing in. _

Screaming people. They’re watching something— a television in a bar. Blaring. Loud and familiar. Beckoning to come and see. Something is happening.

“The first category 2 detected in the northern hemisphere.”

_Illya. Oh god. Please. _

Napoleon watches, frozen. He should have been there. Should have fought by his side.

_They’re closing in. _

Napoleon can’t stop watching.

_They’re closing in. _

The Kaiju got the Jaeger pinned to the ground.

_They’re closing in. _

Two men in suits enter the bar. They show their id’s to the hostess. She points at him.

_They’re coming._

The Jaeger is still fighting.

“Napoleon Solo, come with us.”

No._ No. _

Napoleon struggles in their grasp. He has to see— has to witness.

_Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya Illya _

The Red Peril stands.

Illya wins.

Napoleon surrenders.

——

The first few weeks of Napoleon’s experience with the CIA is best summarised with a set of questions. It started with the expected:

_Where is the drive?_

_What do you know?_

But became more ridiculous as it went on:

_Have you spoken to Rudi?_

_Do you know where he is?_

This part made Napoleon laugh through his bloody lips, cackling until an agent punched him again.

After a while, the questions took a turn for the spiritual.

_What are you doing this for? Don’t you want to be free? Don’t you want to be useful? Who are you protecting? Is there anyone left to care about anymore? Why are you fighting?_

_Why don’t you just give up?_

Napoleon grinned— grins. He’s still grinning, he thinks.

“You took everything from me. Why should I reward you for that?”

_Crack. _

A new face swims into view. Is it a memory, or is it happening? Napoleon doesn’t know.

Ah— more questions:

_Are these scores true, or did you fake them?_

_Did the Russians test you on cerebral stability?_

_Have you ever been in a jaeger program before this?_

Those are strange questions. Napoleon awakens a little, curious.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, interested in an answer for the first time in a long time. He smiles at them. “Come on, don’t you get tired of asking questions? Give me something, just for variarity.”

The agent ignores him— is he an agent? He’s wearing a white coat, like a doctor. Did they break him too much this time?

“Sir,” doctor-agent-lab-rat says. “These are the second highest scores we’ve ever seen. If these are legitimate, he could handle the system Rudi was developing.”

There is a grave cough, and then, “Who was the first?”

“The person the system was made for, sir. Victoria Vinciguerra.”

A tall man, heavy set, lumbers towards Napoleon and regards him with a considering twist to his lips. Napoleon holds his gaze.

“Hmm,” the man says, eloquently. “Have them tested for drift compatibility.”

They must have punched him again, because everything goes numb.

The man leans forward, and wags an authoritative finger at him. “Well, Mister Solo. You might have not lost everything just yet. Consider this a chance at a life that you haven’t earned. You’re lucky.”

The agents leave him with his thoughts.

Napoleon has stopped grinning.

He’s trying to deny it. He’s throwing every moment of horror and pain and hurt that Victoria has ever given to him up into the forefront of his mind. Mercilessly, violently, feeling every moment. But still, Napoleon knows, deep down, that it doesn’t matter. They’re drift compatible. They’re too similar not to be. She’s shaped him into what he is from the moment his father stopped caring. She knows him. She’s always said so, and now she’s about to prove it.

Because there is this misconception about the drift— that it is only possible through deep trust. That the bond is made of pure feelings of equality and cooperation, and whatever little stories people tell themselves. If it had been, it would’ve been impossible. Humans are fickle things and even with the deepest bond, there will be moments of anxiety and doubt that could disrupt the connection in the most perilous of moments, or have Jaeger-pilots be unable to deploy after the most minor of disagreements.

Trust is important, and is the foundation of the best jaeger-pilots. But it isn’t what keeps the bond stable— what makes it possible even during those moments of doubt.

The central ingredient to the drift is surrender. You don’t have to trust anyone for that. You just have to give in.

And Victoria has been irrevocably capable of making Napoleon do that exact thing.

———

“Oh darling. Everyone is going to love you, like you deserve to be seen. Like I always knew you would be. We are going to be legendary together.”

She’s right.

He is.

_She_ is.

They are.

There is no difference.

Victoria is every atom of him.

It should be horrifying. It should be disgusting. It isn’t. Oh _god._ It isn’t.

They’re drifting every day— have to, to test the new system. Napoleon is drunk on it, the sensation of being alive— the rush of emotions that Victoria gifts him. It’s almost like his brain was too broken to make its own dopamine, and the drift provides what is missing. Every second outside the drift is torture; his mind left to its own bleak devices.

Victoria is so sickly happy, so glad to have him all for herself. The possession is easy to sink into. He doesn't have to think. That’s the important part.

She tells him he loves her. And does it even matter if he believes her or not when they are of one mind. Her truth is his truth, and she is stronger.

They drift and drift and drift. Nothing else feels real. He's slipping, and Victoria is both the one pushing him into limbo, and the only thing keeping him standing.

They save people. People love them. Press, tours, fans. Napoleon feels important. Like a hero. Like Illya.

Is he watching? Does he know? _Will it ever be enough? _

Victoria tells him it won’t be. Victoria tells him it will always just be them.

Victoria tells him everything. She talks endlessly about how amazing they are, how amazing he is. She’s fallen in love with what the people think of her, and she’s honestly grateful, in a way, for Napoleon making that possible.

She tells him he loves her. And it doesn’t matter if he believes or not, if they only have each other.

The adrenaline of battle binds them together almost as much as the drift does. When a Kajiu almost kills them, they fall into an embrace after the fight. When the Red Peril nears them, Victoria knows everything without having to say a word, and Napoleon cries on her shoulder for an entire night. She’s everything he has. And everything he as, is hers.

She loves to flick through his memories, caressing each and every one with an almost sympathy-filled smile. She likes to think of Spain, plucking it out of his mind and watching it like its entertainment.

It becomes more and more meaningless every time she does it. More as if it was only a film after all— not real.

“This is the time you were away from me. It’s interesting to see what you got up to, when you finally stopped throwing yourself into danger.”

“I was happy then,” Napoleon tells her, “You took that away from me.”

She laughs, draws up every dark night, every moment of drinking so that he could forget— every time Garcia sighed, and Tia looked at him sadly. Napoleon hears himself say “_Why is happiness so hard for us?” _and remembers his hopelessness, even in a place where he felt so loved.

“Were you really?” Victoria says after the memories fade away.

Napoleon looks away— or tries to. It doesn’t matter where he looks, she’s always there.

“At least I was real,” Napoleon says eventually. “And they cared about me.”

Victoria takes his hand, in a way that’s almost tender. “You’re lying to yourself again. How can they care about you, the real you, when they didn’t know all you’ve done? Do you really think they would feel the same way, after you tell them everything? You weren’t real then. It was just another version, silenced with secrets. I know your secrets, Napoleon. I understand them, and I still care. You only have me. I’ll always be with you. ”

But that is a lie. She isn’t careful with her thoughts, and Napoleon learns how bored she is with the heroic life; bored with him and his ever growing misery. She wants independence again, to step back into the world without orders overhead. Napoleon listens to her plans, absent, saying nothing.

She doesn’t notice, too caught up in knowing him that she never checks. She thinks about taking Napoleon with her, absently, like Napoleon can’t hear, and eventually decides against it— _without the drift, it would be difficult to keep him pliant. _

Napoleon agrees with that. He needs the drift— he aches for it every time it takes weeks for another Kaiju to come. He knows, vaguely, that he should feel guilty about that. That he shouldn’t wish for the monsters to come, who ravage every city they come across. And how can someone like that demand freedom? How can he be so selfish? His need for the drift might be nefarious, but at least he’s saving the world. He can’t try to escape for the vague hope that without Victoria, he’ll be a person again.

But if she were the one to run away, it wouldn’t be his fault.

So he lets her. He keeps silent about what he sees in her scheming mind. Victoria sees it as a sign of loyalty, too caught up in her control of him to suspect the truth.

The plan is simple. She’s going to steal a nuclear processor and start over again, now making a Jaeger based on the knowledge she collected from being a pilot in one. But she hasn’t listened to the technicians. She doesn’t know why it’s been left in an abandoned workstation, unguarded and alone.

Napoleon has listened. Napoleon knows exactly what is going to happen, and she never once looks at his thoughts.

It all happens so fast and so slow at the same time. The alarms of the building, the panic for a mole, the realisation Victoria is missing and then the reports streaming in— an escape by boat, ending in tragedy.

He isn’t surprised when he’s dragged into a room, questioned by hard-faced officials.

_Did you know,_ they yell, but Napoleon barely hears it. Everything is so far away.

He nods.

They show him the pictures. The wreck of the ship, Victoria’s body limp.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Napoleon shrugs. He’s so light and so heavy at the same time. “Everyone leaves.”

The men look at each other. They seem faceless. Napoleon doesn’t know what they’re thinking. He doesn’t care.

One of them shakes his head and walks out, slamming the door behind him. The other stays, silent. He puts the pictures away. It’s a relief.

“I didn’t love her,” he tells the man.

The man snorts. “You let her to die.”

Napoleon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. “I did.”

“Why?”

Napoleon almost laughs. _Why. _He doesn’t even know himself, but he gets the sense that he once knew. That he will know again. He’s been running from Victoria for so long. She just made him forget his reasons. He must have them. He’ll remember.

He doesn’t give an answer, and eventually — inevitably— he’s alone. For the first time in years, there is no echo in the back of his mind. The veil that she’d pulled over his eyes is slowly pulling back inch by fucking inch. She’s _gone_.

_He never loved her. _

He’s only been in love with one person in his life, and it felt nothing like that. It is so strange to be able to remember that. To not have her push it away. His mind is his own again.

If it wasn’t for Illya, he might not even have known the difference between loving someone on their insistence, and loving someone from within himself. It is almost comical how someone who has forgotten about him long ago, is still saving him from miles away.

But for all his regained freedom, Victoria’s absence doesn’t fix him. He’s empty. It’s as if Victoria took all of the emotion with her when they last drifted. There is no one to feel for him. They don’t allow him to drift at all.

The diagnosis is stasis-addiction, and they send him to a facility that’s supposed to help regain his mental independence. Napoleon can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t think he’s ever had that his whole life.

“You’ve relied on the mental stability of another for so long, Napoleon,” some therapist tells him. He doesn’t remember her name. “You’ve lost yourself.”

Napoleon smiles at her, patronising. “I’ve lost myself a long time ago.”

With Spain so deeply suppressed by Victoria’s hand, it doesn’t feel like a lie at all.

What _has _changed is what people know him for. He’s no longer known for his thefts, or his betrayals. Napoleon Solo is a Jaeger pilot who saved thousands; who is loved by the people; and has a good smile for the cameras. It’s the best version of himself he ever played.

Victoria might have gone, but he’s still following orders— Sanders isn’t going to let him be useless rotting in jail or the facility. Instead he’s sent on a tour, of all things. He’s a traveling monkey, trying to draw sympathy for a dying cause. It’s almost satisfying, to sneer about the preposterous idea of the Wall, and appeal to the people for the continuation of the jaeger program. It would be, if it wasn’t so hopeless. Jaeger pilots are an extinct species as much as the rest of humanity, and Napoleon feels like he’s the only one in the Jaeger circles who accepts it.

The world is done with heroics, it seems.

But then the Red Peril falls.

Illya survives, but Tatiana does not.

Watching it happen— thinking him lost, and then seeing pictures of an unconscious Illya in a hospital bed, it is the worst Napoleon ever felt. The terror shakes Napoleon out of his stupor— how can he dare not to care about this world, about this _cause, _if Illya lost everything for it?

He relearns how to feel again, through his pain for Illya; tastes the bitterness of grief when he looks at the photos of the wrecked Red Peril; the ecstasy of relief when it is reported Illya came away without major injuries. Things feel real again, and Napoleon wakes up, and he remembers.

Who he was. Who he could be. What he can do. He isn’t fixed— won’t ever be, but he starts to relearn who he is all over again.

Sanders starts a revolution, and Napoleon follows, for the first time, on his own accord. He uses the skills that made his cons possible to persuade Jaeger pilots and their masters to go rogue. Uses his name and renown to secure investments and donations, and his determination to eradicate the hopelessness that is holding everyone hostage.

Whether he believes himself doesn’t matter. What matters is that the people believe _him_.

Everyone who still has the power to fight needs to unify in Hong Kong and they need the right people for it. It’s Napoleon who suggested approaching the Russians for their support. He didn’t do it to get close to Illya. He did it to do something that mattered. But when he hears about Illya’s troubles to find another partner, a thought catches him. _It should be him._

He carefully doesn’t say it— trying to tamper down his hopes. But when, almost a year after the death of Tatiana, Sanders steps into his room, Napoleon knows exactly what he’s going to say.

“Illya Kuryakin.”

Napoleon laughs at him. It’s going to be a disaster— for him, at least. Not for Illya, who must not give a single shit about him by now, in the grand scheme of things. He just lost his mother, for christ sake, what is Napoleon to that? Vincenzo had been only a few months. He is insignificant in the face of all Illya’s accomplishments, and to all of his grief.

It’s not going to hurt to see it, to experience it, but Napoleon can’t make himself run from Illya any longer, whatever the consequences might be.

So Napoleon steps in the plane thinking he’s prepared for heartbreak.

He isn’t.

As Illya sits down across him, Napoleon is overrun with the familiarity of his face; memories flood his mind and almost make him reach out to touch— he so desperately wants to hold him. He can’t help but hope, for just a second, that they might be able to work together on this. That Illya will give him a chance to make everything alright again. He tries to speak— tries to apologise for everything, but then he realises that Illya isn’t looking at him. Illya is ignoring him, like he’s invisible.

Like he doesn’t matter— not worth a modicum of attention.

Napoleon closes his mouth. Trying to control himself in the sudden rush of disappointment, which turns, stupidly and selfishly, into a burst of anger. Illya is treating him like, like he’s still a criminal. Like he’s still Vincenzo, and hasn’t done anything worth respecting— like he hasn’t _tried. _Hasn’t fit himself in the mind of a monster just to be less of one himself.

Any hope of something good coming out of this shatters into pieces. Illya— this Illya, neutral, uncaring Illya — would never set a step in his direction willingly, never mind drift with him. He’s been so intensely stupid to even think he would be given a chance.

Even if that is what he’d wanted, isn’t it? He hadn’t realised how much of a lie that letter had been. He had never wanted to be forgotten.

Napoleon loses himself into old patterns— turning vicious, like he did with Jemaine so long ago. He proves that Illya was right to ignore him. After all this time, he still hasn’t learned how not to hurt the people he loves.

He itches for Illya’s violent response. He wants the hatred— the blank slate before him hurting so much more than a scream in his face. He deserves to face it. He_ needs_ it.

But Illya doesn’t.

And he never will.

—

Slowly, Napoleon heals. It is not an easy journey.

He learns the true depth of his mistakes.

The true depth of Illya’s capacity to forgive.

That to be granted a second chance is not only possible, but _inevitable_; he sees it on Illya’s face when he wakes.

Yet accepting it seems unthinkable.

But, slowly, Napoleon heals.

Illya loves him.

He can’t keep on running.

He’s ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically: mindsharing and emotionally abusive relationships are a Very Bad Thing and this chapter gives an impression of what it was like for Napoleon to be a Jaeger pilot with Victoria, as was established he was in DD. But the story continues after that, hopefully showing that Illya will be healing him as much as Napoleon eventually helped heal Illya. <3 
> 
> So, I think if I try to thank everyone I'll literally be here for thousands of years. But Thank you first to my Beta for doing all this work for me and being so flexible with posting schedules and time. Then ScribeofArda without whom this work wouldn't exist, or at least it would've been something I'd completely hate and only would have posted because I once promised a sequel, not something I'd be proud of and (though with period of frustrations) enjoyed making. The fact that I have someone who can literally increase the quality of my writing process is invaluable and I love you so much for that <3 
> 
> Then all the readers who've stuck with me through this from DD to now, and the ones who joined in later and gave this monster of a series a chance. Thank you. Y'all have become such an important part of my life, you can't even imagine. I can't even believe it's been 2 years and 9 months since I started this project, if I'm calculating correctly. Thank you so much for joining me! 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope that that was a good introduction to this long awaited (lmfao) prequel. I've been working on this for more than 1,5 years, and I'm in turns completely in love of it, and grudgingly annoyed by it. The first arch is something that has grown on me over the year and I'm super happy to share it with yall. The last arch is fighting me a bit, but I hope that Y'alls encouragement here will help me finish it long before we reach that point posting. 
> 
> I'm planning to post every Sunday. My amazing beta Lbswasp is making that possible. 
> 
> Due to some intense events, the chapters tend to be around 4k each, though some might reach 6k. Because otherwise it could be a lot to read in one go. I recommend rereading some of the fluffy chapters of DD if you need it ;P Cold Frost and Sunshine has been my fluff therapy while writing some of the later chapters, so if you haven't tried that one yet, I would recc. 
> 
> I also want to mention that Drowning Deep is more than 2 years ago now, and I've grown to be a more experienced writer in that time. Which means that some of the underdeveloped Ideas I had back then, might cause plot holes with this story. I've worked hard to try to align both stories with each other, but I also didn't want to keep myself to the mistakes of the past. 
> 
> One important thing to note that in my headcanon of Pacific Rim Universe: you can only find a drift partner and/or learn how to be a jaeger pilot starting from 21, because of brain development sciencey stuff. Which means after four years of training, Illya would have been 24 almost 25 when he was chosen to be SOP. Napoleon was 26 while he was in russia, pretending to be 23. 
> 
> Because I've run out of cool OST songs to use, I've made my own soundtrack to this fic, and shall post artist/song when necessary. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLkSZmN6oK9yTpBjg6f_D38RKwBAtWNzzT) for some sad jazz and even sadder foreshadowing ;P It's under another online pseudonym of mine, so don't be worried about my name in the corner. I've listened to it while writing so much that I know every note, and impress old men with my extensive jazz knowledge. 
> 
> I hope y'all can enjoy Napoleon's story. I just felt like it needed to be told, even after so long. Love y'all <3


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